Steele in Love With You
by Amy S
Summary: A fatalistic view of where our heroes are right now.
1. Chapter 1

Steele In Love With You

By Amy S.

Timeline: It's now. Fifth season (say it with me now) never happened

Summary: A fatalistic view of where they might be today.

**Chapter 1**

Laura Holt slammed her way into the bathroom, muttering to herself. What kind of insurance company had arrogant children working for them? She was absolutely sick of Chad Fenton.

Did Mr. Steele approve of this? Did Mr. Steele okay that?

The twenty-year-old had gotten to her, and they'd never even met. The chauvinistic little dunce tormented her over the phone.

Maybe she just needed a real case. Enough of helping the rich posture.

She wanted someone to complain to, someone to talk her down, but she'd already given Murphy an earful earlier. With only employees around, she didn't have anyone to lean on but herself.

Laura checked herself in the mahogany-framed mirror. She frowned as she noticed a new wrinkle. The frown brought out another. She took a deep breath and then smiled a fake cocktail-party smile. Satisfied, she went on to check her hair and makeup. When it all passed muster, she adjusted the straps on the deep blue gown, pushed open the heavy door, and stepped into the bustling throng.

The gala evening marked the first stop on the world tour of seven multi-million dollar works of art, a tour backed by a solitary collector. William Foster had made headlines when he broke the Christie's Auctions record for most money spent on a single piece. The headlines a few weeks later gave him another record: he had refused to place a reserve on a Renoir that then sold for peanuts. Another firm would take over when the tour moved overseas, but, until then, Remington Steele Investigations was in charge of security.

Laura walked around the parquet dance floor, past the Gauguin and Matisse masterpieces on display, checking that the uniformed security guards were in place. She checked that the other art, shown in rotation at the behest of the insurance company, was safely locked in its unmarked storeroom with the plainclothes security guard outside.

Satisfied that everything was as planned, Laura climbed the spiral staircase to the balcony, where a buffet was laid and waiters busily kept glasses full. She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing attendant and went to the railing to watch the party.

"I've always known how I would feel if I ever saw you again."

The familiar brogue shocked her. Her eyes went wide, and she gripped the railing tightly with her free hand to calm herself before she turned around.

"Oh? And how do you feel?" she asked, taking in the dejected face of the tuxedoed man who had been known as Remington Steele.

"I believe the appropriate cliché would be 'a knife in the heart'."

Laura was at a loss for words. She thought about an appropriate response for nearly a minute. Finally, she said, "There's so much to say, but I can't come up with a single thing."

He nodded.

They stood there until a waiter appeared with a magnum of champagne and asked Laura if she wanted a refill.

"By all means," she answered, holding out her glass.

"And for you, sir?"

Without taking his eyes off Laura, he said, "A double scotch is definitely in order."

The waiter disappeared to fill the drink order.

Laura ignored her glass and aimlessly ran her finger around the rim.

"You look stunning tonight, Laura," he said at last.

"Thank you."

She looked him over. He'd aged well. His hair wasn't greying; it was just a bit lighter than its previous jet black. He had put on a few pounds, but, given his slender frame, it looked good on him. Laura decided to hate him for that for a little while.

"It never ceases to amaze me how handsome you look in a tuxedo, Remin –" She hesitated. "Sorry."

He shrugged. "Old habits."

She brightened a bit now that the ice was broken.

"What should I call you tonight?"

"The name on the guest list is John Van Doren, but I don't much like it."

"Not a Humphrey Bogart character?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I haven't been to Los Angeles since we..." He didn't know how to put it, so he continued, "I checked on tonight's security, and the agency wasn't the name I was given. Still, to be safe, I went with a name you probably wouldn't connect to me."

"It was a good choice. I went through the guest list personally."

"So you are providing security."

"I thought it would be an additional layer of protection if another agency's name was used in the press. It would send any would-be art thieves down the wrong path."

The waiter appeared with Steele's drink. He took it and thanked the young man.

"Good idea," he said.

"It was yours."

He swallowed a measure of whisky, glad its burn gave him something else to feel, and tried to remember the case Laura was referring to. He could not recall, so Laura began to remind him.

"Do you remember when Travis – "

"Excuse me." An older woman dressed in an atrocious yellow chiffon gown addressed Steele. "Remington Steele? I thought it was you! It's been years. Harold and I were beginning to think you didn't exist."

Laura allowed herself a small smile.

"It's wonderful to see you again," he said, with no idea who this woman was.

He tried to think of a quick way to get rid of her. As the conversation continued against his will, he watched Laura slip away into the crowd.

xxxxxx

"Murph?"

Murphy Michaels was busy rechecking the guards, but Laura got his attention.

"Hey, Laura. What's up?"

"Everything okay with the setup?"

"Yeah, fine, but I hate this tie," he said, tugging at his collar and looking generally uncomfortable in his tux.

When Laura didn't say anything else, Murphy said, "You didn't come over here to find out about my tie."

Laura faced the dance floor and tried not to make eye contact with Murphy.

"He's here," she said.

"Who's here?"

Murphy put his hand on her shoulder and turned her toward him.

"Laura, if there's someone I need to keep an eye on, just tell me. It's what you contracted my agency for, after all."

Laura wished she hadn't said anything at all to Murphy.

"You don't need to keep an eye on him. I just want you to know he's here."

Murphy was confused. He didn't need to watch this person, but Laura felt the need to alert him to his presence? What the hell was going on?

"Who is this guy, already?"

"Remington."

Murphy wasn't sure he heard right.

"Remington... as in Steele?"

Laura nodded.

"And you don't think we need to keep an eye on him?" Murphy asked, raising his voice slightly. He never had trusted the former shadow man who brought life to the fictitious Remington Steele.

"No, I don't," she said, looking him directly in the eyes. "If he was here to steal something, he won't anymore. He didn't know I was providing security."

"So what, Laura! The guy left you."

Laura cringed as Murphy's rant continued.

"That jerk left you and went back to stealing anything that wasn't bolted down, and you say we don't need to watch him?"

Laura said firmly, "He did not leave me. You know that very well." She took a breath. Calmly, she said, "I just didn't want you to be surprised if you ran into him. Finish rechecking the guards."

Murphy was close to boiling over. "Laura, the guy – "

She cut him off.

"Finish rechecking the guards."

xxxxxx

Murphy completed his rounds on the main floor and went up to the balcony, getting angrier with each stair climbed. At the top of the staircase, he turned to check the position of the security guards on this level. As he swung his eyes back, he caught a glimpse of a man standing alone at the balcony rail, away from the masses of art lovers.

Murphy couldn't see the man's face, but the height and hair were right. So was the manner as the man knocked back his whisky.

Murphy strode across the floor, not stopping when he reached his target. Instead, Murphy caught him by the jacket and hauled him into the shadows at the far end. When they were away from the crowd, Murphy shoved him away.

"Murphy, there's no need for this," Steele said evenly, raising his hands in surrender. "Truce? Can we have a truce?"

Murphy fumed for a minute, then decided to calm down.

"It's been a long time," Remington said, feeling genuinely glad to see an old friend again.

"Not long enough."

Remington began, "Laura – "

That was it. Murphy lost his temper. The punch he threw sent Steele into the wall.

Murphy pushed his hands through his jostled hair to settle it as he looked to see if anyone was paying attention to the commotion. A few eyes were turned their way, so Murphy stuck out his hand to help Steele up.

"Feel better now?" Steele asked with a dry sarcasm, pushing his own hair back into place and rubbing his reddening jaw.

"Sure do. Thanks."

"You're welcome. Glad to help."

Steele, who had beaten himself up for a long time over the demise of the relationship, understood Murphy's hostility, so he did not pursue the confrontation. Instead, he walked to the balcony rail once more. Murphy followed.

"Tell me, Murphy," Steele began. "What do you see when you look down there?"

"Marks."

Remington quickly tired of the antagonism.

"Can we be grown-ups for just a moment?"

Murphy sighed and pushed his anger down.

"Fine," he said. "Well, I see a whole lot of people with more money than they know what to do with, all having a good time. They'll spend tonight dancing and having meaningless conversations; tomorrow they'll be back to making a killing from anything they can get their hands on." He paused and looked at Steele. "You fit right in."

"They certainly aren't discussing last night's hoops game."

Murphy laughed involuntarily, surprised that Steele remembered this little tidbit from their former lives, and even more surprised that Steele seemed to have figured out what a hoop was.

"I'm sure they're not," Murphy agreed, "unless they own the team."

"Right," Steele chuckled.

They watched the party silently for a few moments.

Finally, Murphy spoke.

"So, what do you see when you look down there?"

He didn't get an answer right away.

"Well?"

Steele pointed off to their left, toward a dark corner away from the dance floor.

"All I can see is Laura, standing there alone."

"She's working," Murphy said, trying to keep Steele from feeling like he had to go talk to her again.

"No, she isn't."

Murphy studied Laura, not seeing whatever he was supposed to see.

"How do you know?"

"One of your goons dressed up as party guests just left his position and walked right in front of her."

"What?" Murphy started toward the stairs, but Steele stopped him.

"It's okay, Murphy. He'll be right back." He pointed at the man entering the restroom. "Laura's not paying attention."

After a moment, they watched the guard emerge and return to his post.

"I know you'd rather I just disappear."

"So why don't you? After all, you're not here to take anything," Murphy said.

Remington raised an eyebrow at the presumption.

"I'm not, actually. As I told Laura, I didn't know she was providing security. But I'm not going anywhere until I tell Laura I'm leaving. I won't do that to her; I won't simply vanish."

Remington watched as the antipathy returned to Murphy's face.

"Once was enough, huh?" Murphy goaded.

"Damn you, Murphy," Steele muttered as he headed for the stairs.

Murphy watched him walk away and thought, for a split second, that maybe he'd been out of line.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Laura saw him before he reached her.

"Hi," she said, just loudly enough to be heard over the band and the din.

Remington reached out to touch her shoulder to guide her away from prying ears, but she shrank away.

"I'm sorry, Laura. When I saw you, I should have just turned and left."

"No," she sighed. "I'm glad you didn't."

"You are?"

"I wonder sometimes how you are. The silliest things remind me of you."

"I hope that's not all bad."

"Not all."

The orchestra finished its song and the leader announced a break.

"So, tell me," she said. He noticed she was not addressing him by name. "Are you still going to steal the paintings?"

Her question took him aback. Murphy he'd expected it from; Laura surprised him.

"That's like asking, 'Have you stopped beating your wife?' "

Laura considered that for a second before apologizing.

"I should know better than to assume."

_Yes, you damn well should_, Steele thought.

"So checking on the security arrangements was just to avoid me?"

Since Laura might not appreciate his reason for attending tonight, which was to gather some information about William Foster, he decided to keep it to himself for now.

"No. More like routine, I suppose. When planning to attend an art exhibition, one reads a few art magazines, buys a new jacket, and checks out the building for escape routes."

"You haven't used one yet."

"I like Gauguin, especially _Nevermore_."

After years of being around the art world, Laura had tired of the arrogance and hypocrisy of the rich, the auctioneers, and the gallery owners. These days, she could look at a Monet and be unimpressed. Gauguin's _Nevermore_ was different.

Laura's knowledge of art history did not include this particular work, yet she felt she understood the dark-haired woman in the picture.

"There is something about it, isn't there?"

"He publicly downplayed the link to Poe," he said.

"Really? It's called _Nevermore_ and there's a raven right in the picture."

"Ah, the raven. There's an interesting argument." Remington could see she was unfamiliar with it, so he continued, "From the woman's perspective inside the painting, is the raven in the room, or is it painted on the wall of the room?"

"A little post-impressionist trompe l'oeil?"

"Dizzying to think about, isn't it?"

Laura smiled.

The musicians trickled back to their places and prepared to play.

Instinctively, Steele put his hand on the small of Laura's back. Without a word, they walked onto the dance floor. Time fell away as the singer began the Tony Bennett classic, "While We're Young".

_Songs were made to sing,_

_While we're young._

_Every day is spring,_

_While we're young._

_None can refuse,_

_Time flies so fast._

_Too dear to lose and_

_Too sweet to last._

"_You don't have any unpaid parking tickets, do you?" Remington asked._

"_I can see you're taking this with your usual blend of caution and concern."_

"_If these are to be our last days, at least we're spending them in elegant splendor, don't you think?"_

"_Oh, to hell with our killer cops," Laura said. "Let's enjoy the night and the music."_

"_Now you see the wisdom of my strategy?"_

_Though it may be just_

_For today._

_Share our love we must_

_While we may._

She looked up at him, trying to think of something to say to pull her out of their past.

"So, have you always stayed on the straight and narrow?"

He took so long to answer that she thought he didn't hear. He'd been lost in the music, too, enjoying having her in his arms again.

"Do you remember reading about the Lisbon sculpture heist?" he finally asked.

She thought for a moment. Though they were still dancing, Laura was relieved to regain some mental control.

"Wasn't that the one where the sculptures were taken in broad daylight while the family was in the house?"

"Clever ploy," he whispered.

Remington's whisper, even on this innocent topic, sent electricity through her.

"I remember thinking that I wouldn't put something like that past you. It sounded like you." She ran the sentences together, speaking too quickly, trying to cover her emotions.

"It wasn't me."

"But..."

"There was a sequel."

"I remember! The next day, with police swarming the grounds, their collection of rare coins turned up missing."

"Now that was me," he said with a blend of mischief and pride.

Laura laughed. Steele smiled, more at seeing her laugh again than at her appreciation of his larceny techniques.

"How brazen! I should have known."

"So should they. They had men all over, but they couldn't imagine a return performance. It's the old adage, 'It's always best to rob the bank next to the police station.' "

"I've never heard that one."

"It's not a saying those in the business want the constabulary to be aware of."

"My lips are sealed."

Suddenly feeling unrestrained by their past, she kissed him on the cheek.

He winced and rubbed his jaw.

"What's the matter?"

"I ran into Murphy a little while ago," he said, tucking his arm back around her.

Though he wanted to just hold her close and enjoy the music, he noticed her defenses had gone back up.

"I thought something happened," she said. "He's been up on the balcony watching us."

"Did you not tell him what went on between us?"

"I told him; he knows," she responded, being economical with the truth.

"Your side?" he asked.

"Some of it. And some of yours." She added lightly, "He just blames you."

Steele huffed. He didn't want to talk about this.

"Well, that's fine. I can live with that."

xxxxxx

As the song ended, they moved off the dance floor. Murphy appeared and caught Laura by the arm, leaving Remington adrift in the sea of people who seemed to appreciate the party more than the art. He watched as Murphy launched into the expected diatribe. He strode to the buffet, looked it over, and sighed.

"Are you enjoying the evening?"

Steele was startled, but came back to full alert easily. He recognized the man who had spoken as William Foster. Research had told him to expect a slight, mousy-haired man of average height. Quick observation added nothing yet.

"Very much," he lied.

Foster was filling a cocktail plate. He paused, then heaped a few more items on top.

"The salmon puffs are pretty good." Foster proffered a toothpick. "Try one?"

"Thank you, no." Anything but a salmon puff.

This short conversation about unimportant things allowed Steele to size up Foster the man, instead of Foster the curriculum vitae. Unexpectedly, he branded Foster as quiet and unsure of himself – like he'd been beaten down by life. Steele sensed a cautious optimism, which he found curious.

"Have you known Miss Holt long? I noticed you dancing with her."

Steele hesitated, wondering if he'd intruded on a relationship. He decided he didn't give a damn.

"Miss Holt and I have a long and storied acquaintance."

"She's very good at what she does, but I have never been able to get her to laugh. What's your secret?"

"Years of practice."

Foster seemed genuinely concerned by that.

"It takes that long? I've only known her a few weeks, and I suppose that, as a client instead of a friend, I haven't earned the privilege."

Steele smiled, warming to Foster.

Foster stuck out his hand. "William Foster."

"Smith Barker-Allen." Remington repeated the name in his head several times until he was sure he'd remember it.

"That sounds like the name of an art critic."

"Guilty." Why not?

"Tonight must be an easy gig, unless you're one of those critics who derides the greats, like a literary critic who hates Chaucer."

"The difficulty comes in finding something new to say. With the Gauguin, it's not that hard."

Steele noticed Laura storming their way. Foster saw her, too.

"I have a weakness for intriguing women," Steele explained.

"Apparently so!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

"You didn't come here just because you like Gauguin," Laura said after she had pulled Remington away from her client.

"In a way, yes, I did," Remington countered.

"But not to misappropriate any masterpieces."

"Right."

"You didn't know I'd be here."

"No, I didn't."

Laura waited for him to explain.

Eventually, he said, "I did have some contingency plans, but none dealing with seeing you."

Laura thought about the way he put that last thought. She didn't really care what his motives were. She had more immediate problems.

"Do you have a way through my security?"

He took a deep breath. He had learned long ago not to lie to her.

"Would you mind sharing it with me?" she asked again.

She waited for his answer, but she was growing impatient.

"After all, you are Remington Steele."

"Not anymore, I'm not." He snapped this last, with an accusing glare that placed the blame squarely on her.

"Listen," she said, getting just a little angry. "Whatever name you use, you will always be Remington Steele. It's not a matter of nomenclature; it's a matter of character."

The quiet force she put behind her statement took him aback.

"You don't think there's a dichotomy there?"

"There is a vast chasm, but it has a four-lane bridge across it. After all, you always were both the great detective Remington Steele and a thief, weren't you?"

"I suppose I was."

"The two worked together quite well."

He looked her in the eye when he said, "We worked together quite well."

He had thrown down the gauntlet, but she didn't pick it up. He let his ire fester for a bit, then capitulated.

"First," he said, "you and your pugilistic partner need to stop walking the perimeter. You gave away the positions of your plainclothesmen."

"You had a way in before you walked in the door and saw me."

"There is a backdoor to the room the other art is stored in."

"No, there isn't."

"It's not so much a door."

Laura did not wait for explanation. She waved for Murphy to join them. He appeared a moment later.

"Everything okay here?" he asked Laura while eyeing Steele.

"We need to put guards inside the storeroom now."

Laura's tone left no room to argue. Murphy pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and dialed. He ordered several men watching the exterior of the building to report inside immediately. When they appeared, he gave them their orders.

Laura said, "We better have a look."

Steele hovered nearby as Laura and Murphy opened the door, counted paintings, and relocked the door with guards inside.

"We're alright," Murphy announced. To Laura, he said, "I thought he wasn't here to steal."

"He isn't."

"Explain what we just did, then."

Murphy grabbed Steele by the lapels.

"Laura, I think we've got our security problem right here!"

Steele shoved Murphy away, but Murphy came right back at him. Laura looked to the heavens, but didn't get any help.

"Enough!"

Both men stopped.

"Murphy, we can settle this very simply," she said. She turned to Steele, who was smoothing out his rumpled jacket. "Are you taking us for a ride?"

He calmly answered, "No."

"That takes care of that."

"Laura," Murphy started, "how can you – "

Laura said forcefully, "Murphy, that is enough. We may not have anything else left, but we have trust."

She glanced at Steele. He shot daggers at her. She lifted her chin very slightly, even as she struggled to hold back a tear, daring him to challenge her. He changed the subject.

xxxxxx

"I just talked to Mr. Foster. Apparently, our client and your Mr. Steele have met. He's impressed that 'Remington Steele' is personally on the case."

Murphy noticed that Laura flinched at his snide tone when he said Remington's name.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

Laura forgave him.

"Do not tell Chad about Remington. I've had enough of our intrepid insurance agent."

Murphy laughed. "I won't. And Foster's going to keep his involvement quiet. Since our hero introduced himself using an alias, I let Foster think Steele has been undercover this whole time."

"Ben Pearson?" she asked, hoping he hadn't used the name. That choice would have very disagreeable symmetry.

Murphy consulted a small notebook and chuckled.

"Smith Barker-Allen, art critic."

"Who would argue with a name like that?"

"His aliases are good," Murphy admitted.

He and Laura stood there, apparently aimlessly, for a moment.

"Are you waiting for something?" Murphy asked.

Laura pointed up. Murphy saw a new hole in the ceiling and a rope slung over a pipe.

"What's up there?"

"So far," Laura explained, "just Remington."

Murphy looked at her, suddenly wondering why she used this name instead of his real name. Murphy didn't know what it was, but surely the man had his own name, and surely Laura knew it.

"Do you have to call him that?"

"It's his name, Murph."

Murphy leaned in.

"What's his real name?"

_Laura stepped out of the stairwell to find her door open. She approached cautiously, peered inside, then relaxed._

"_What are you doing here?"_

_She had caught Remington doing nothing but sitting on her couch. He rose as she approached._

"_I have something we need to talk about… I need to talk about," he said._

_He indicated the envelope on the coffee table. She picked it up._

"_And you apologize for breaking into my loft?"_

_He started to, but she waved him off._

"_Open it," he said. "Please."_

_Laura lifted the flap and let a gold pocket watch slide into her hand. She looked up at him questioningly._

_He said, "There's a note. Just one line. 'Your father always wanted you to have this.' Signed Patrick O'Rourke."_

_Laura clicked open the watch, triggering a music-box version of "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling". As she listened, she read aloud, " 'To S.J. from K.L.' The inscription on the watch. One of those must be your father."_

"_Mmm hmm. Perhaps."_

"_Perhaps? You can't have forgotten your own father."_

_He turned away from her, looking for the right way to tell her. He was afraid, more than he'd ever been running from people with guns, but he had to tell her. Damn the torpedoes, he thought._

"_I have a feeling that I never knew who my father really was. That I've never even seen my birth certificate."_

_Laura's eyebrows shot up._

"_Is that why you wouldn't tell me your real name? Because you don't know it?"_

It was the first deeply personal thing Remington had shared with her. She'd been irritated instead of supportive.

"Let it go, Murphy."

Before Murphy could argue, they heard rustling above them, and soon Steele's head appeared.

"This entrance is closed for good," he said.

Laura called, "Anything else up there?"

He dropped down the rope.

"Just like old times," he said, almost to himself, shaking as much of the grime off as he could. To Laura, "Just dust and cobwebs."

Murphy turned to Laura. "It's after midnight. Are we buttoned up here?"

"As much as we can be at the moment."

"Why don't you catch a few hours of sleep and spell me in the morning?"

Tired emotionally rather than physically, Laura said, "I think I'll take you up on that. See you at seven thirty?"

"Sounds good, partner."

Murphy ignored Steele and left the room.

Laura turned to Remington.

"I came here with Murphy. Would you mind driving me home?"

"It would be my pleasure, Laura."

xxxxxx

Laura gave him directions to her house as they drove. He pulled the rental car into the driveway and hopped out of the car quickly so he could open the door for her.

"Thanks."

He walked her up the path to her house.

"Want some coffee?"

He hesitated. They weren't old friends who had simply lost touch.

"I'm not sure. Maybe I should just go."

"Are you coming back in the morning to work on the case?"

"I meant I thought I should go in a more permanent sense."

She shook her head. "Come in for a while."

Laura unlocked the door, pushed it open, and looked back at him. She grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him inside.

Remington loitered in front of the mantle while she started the coffee. He noted pictures of her mother and her sister's family. There was not one of him. He recalled how happy Abigail had been when she found out he and Laura were looking at houses. He wondered how she felt when Laura moved out of their two-story and moved here alone.

"I think I would have been better off if you had just disappeared one day."

He turned away from the pictures. She handed him the tray of coffee things and went back to the kitchen before he could say anything. She returned with spoons.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because then," she said, pouring his coffee and adding a bit of cream, "I could have deluded myself with all kinds of different reasons why you might have left."

"Honesty is overrated?"

She sipped her coffee.

"Reality is overrated," she said.

He supposed this conversation was inevitable.

"Do you know what the hardest thing for me was, Laura?"

"No," she said. She didn't really want to know.

"Learning to answer to Michael – or Harry or Douglas or whatever – instead of Remington Steele. I had to think about why I was going under a new name every single time I heard it."

"I decided not to change the name of the agency, so I empathize."

"The name you gave me also cost me a lot of work."

"Oh?"

"I'm out nearly three thousand Japanese woodcut prints because they're housed in the Carnegie Museum of Art."

Laura laughed; she knew the museum was in Pittsburgh.

"I just couldn't go there. Not with the love those people have for their sportsmen. I'd never escape the name."

"A typewriter and a football team."

Steele had to smile, too.

"Would you have taken all three thousand?" she asked.

Eventually, he supposed, he'd have to tell her he was out of the business, but that was more than he was ready to share right now.

"Every last one. It was a personal challenge."

They lapsed into silence, studying their coffees.

"It has been nice to hear the name again," he said.

Laura looked up, meeting his eyes.

"Coming from your lips."

Uneasy, she quickly glanced back down.

"It feels strange to say it," she said.

"I noticed."

He also noticed she wouldn't look at him.

Steele finished his coffee and put the cup down. He cleared his throat. Laura saw that he was looking for a way out.

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?" she asked.

"I'll find somewhere."

She shook her head.

"I have a spare bedroom."

He tried to work out what was going on here. He didn't like these surprises. He eventually concluded that she simply wanted him around for a while.

He followed her to the room, where she pointed out the towels and extra blankets. He set the alarm clock while she lingered in the doorway. He pulled a blanket out of the drawer and put it at the foot of the bed. She still didn't go.

Finally, he went to her and put his hand on her cheek. She closed her eyes as his lips grazed hers.

"Good night, Laura," he said quietly.

She took a step back toward her room.

"Good night, Remington."

xxxxxx

He made sure she was asleep before he slipped out the door. He tossed his bag in the passenger seat and put the key into the ignition. The car chimed perkily, which annoyed him.

Remington Steele sat in the dark, berating himself for coming to Los Angeles, for not running when he saw Laura. What was he thinking?

He had a decision to make. Should he go back inside, help her with the case, and see what came of it? Or should he leave the continent and try again to forget her?

He slammed the steering wheel with his palms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Morning, Laura," Murphy said, trying to sound less anxiety-ridden than he was.

"Good morning. Have you found any more holes?"

"Too damn many!"

Laura looked surprised.

"Did you know that Chad has been contacting some of the staff? Making changes to our arrangements?"

Laura was stunned. This was not what an insurance agent did.

Murphy glanced around, and, not seeing Steele, he went on, "Look, I'm glad he's gone. We've got a serious problem here."

"He's in the kitchen. I didn't have any tea."

Murphy didn't like the sound of that.

"Tell me he didn't stay with you last night."

"He stayed in my spare bedroom." She smiled sadly at the floor. "He made breakfast like he used to."

Murphy softened. He put his arm around her shoulder. "Look, Laura. I know the guy's not the lout I'd like him to be, but I don't want to see you get hurt all over again."

Both of them could see that possibility. Laura appreciated that Murphy didn't want to have to talk her off the proverbial ledge.

"It'll be okay, Murph. Tell me what Chad's been doing."

"He called one of my investigators, asked him to change a security code on a door."

"Did your man do it?"

"Not until I told him to change all the codes. And you're going to love this one."

"Lay it on me."

"He called the head chef, asking about Steele."

"What?"

Murphy shrugged.

Laura asked, "Does Chad know Remington's here?"

"I don't know. I don't think so."

Laura was irate, but she didn't let this stop her from asking a very important question.

"Did he ask to have to code changed to something specific?"

"No. Just changed."

"What did the chef tell him?"

"Nothing. He's never met Steele."

Laura fumed, trying to think. Chad might be twenty, as he had insisted in a pimply voice over the phone, but Laura still thought of him as The Insurance Teenager. He had tried to inject himself into the security arrangements before. Was he just trying to end around her again, still irritated that a woman knew so much more than he did about security? Was he testing her? And why had he asked about Remington?

Murphy watched as her anger dissipated and the spark of a grin crossed her face.

"Shall I sic Remington on him?"

Murphy considered that, starting to smile himself. In a moment they were both laughing.

"No, I can't," Laura said when she could finally breathe again. "I can't."

"It'd be fun."

"Chad wouldn't stand a chance, but I'd lose what little respect I've earned."

"Don't use him as the head of a detective agency. Send him after Chad in his other capacity."

"Murphy, that's positively wicked."

"You haven't said no yet."

Laura patted Murphy's arm.

"Run a check on our young colleague. Please stop short of having his car stolen."

xxxxxx

Remington took the whistling kettle off the oversized professional stove in the kitchen. He poured a cup, then tossed in the tea bag he had found. He was headed out when he heard a door open and close.

Peering around the corner, he saw William Foster with a cell phone to his ear.

"Yes, the Gauguin is coming down."

Silence. Remington waited.

"I told you, it's coming down. It's the schedule. Why do you care, anyway?"

Remington blew on his steaming tea as he listened to Foster's end of the conversation.

"Deal with it, Chad. The Matisse is being changed, too."

"Because I don't like it, that's why. I like my Vermeer."

Vermeer and Gauguin in the same conversation. Remington supposed that wasn't necessarily telling, as the same person owned both. However, he also knew they were both copies. Good ones, he noted, but copies nonetheless.

"Well, the Vermeer is going up."

Remington retreated out the other kitchen door as Foster ended the call and came in. He then reentered the kitchen pretending to look for a spoon.

"Ah, Mr. Foster."

"You're the art critic, right?" he said, crossing the huge room. When they were closer, he lowered his voice. "I talked to Mr. Michaels earlier. Is it okay to use your real name?"

Remington put the pieces together as quickly as he could.

"Of course, of course. Mr. Michaels is a competent associate, but he isn't privy to everything. The need for the alias has passed, but I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention my presence to anyone."

Foster nodded.

"So, Steele, do you really have a 'storied past' with Miss Holt, or was that part of your cover?"

"That was the plain truth."

He chuckled. "I like Miss Holt. Tough as nails and beautiful, but far too serious. She reminds me of my wife."

Remington was glad Foster wasn't after Laura. He liked the man, despite not knowing what his level of involvement was with the paintings.

"She's not always so serious. I would imagine your wife can be carefree and passionate, too."

Foster looked at his shoes.

"She was."

"Was?"

"She died long ago. Car accident."

"I'm very sorry."

"I was sorry, too, but we had some wonderful times. I remember those."

Remington wished he could remember only the wonderful times with Laura. Foster seemed to find something cathartic in this conversation, so he offered more.

"My family didn't approve. Very stereotypically rich, they were, and she wasn't. I chose her over them. It was the best decision I ever made."

"I guess love isn't always complicated."

"Love, no. Everything else was. My family disowned me. I worked in a factory. We had a tiny apartment, which became far too big and empty after the accident."

"And then you made your own fortune? Throwing galas and showing off the art collection?"

"I think of myself as the caretaker of all this money. It isn't really mine; I'm just enjoying it."

xxxxxx

Laura found Remington in the vacuum of the cavernous gallery, standing in front of _Nevermore_ instead of sitting on the nearby bench. He sipped his tea.

"Which picture is replacing this?" he asked.

"Vermeer's _Young Woman Seated at the Virginals_."

Steele grunted. He put his cup down on the bench behind him.

"Don't care for that one?"

"No. Leave this one up as long as you can."

"The final gala is the day after tomorrow. I'll have to get it moved today."

Laura watched him study the Gauguin.

"Tell me what you find so fascinating about _Nevermore_," she said.

He glanced at Laura and decided to show one card.

"Gauguin may have painted a Tahitian nude, but I don't really care about the details. The Poe reference adds a little, I suppose. It's not the brushwork, the colors, the composition, per se. It's the feeling of it."

Laura nodded thoughtfully.

"She's you," he said.

He turned toward Laura and away from the painting for the first time. Their eyes locked. He took her hand and kissed it, drawing her close.

As their lips met, his eyes closed. Laura kept her eyes on him, like she did when they were first together. If she closed them, she thought, maybe when she opened them again, she'd discover she was just waking up from a dream and he wasn't really there.

"Hey, Laura. I've got what you asked for," Murphy called from the back of the gallery.

"The man has Mildred's timing," Steele muttered.

Murphy trotted up.

"Nothing special about Chad Fenton. It's exactly what you'd expect for a kid who hasn't been working long."

Chad was the person Foster had been talking to, Remington noted to himself.

"How did he get such a high-powered job, writing multi-million dollar policies?" asked Laura. "Family connections? Some kind of reward for sniffing out something that saved the company a lot of money?"

"Kid's got an Ivy League degree – two-year associate's, anyway – but no family money that I could see. The insurance company wouldn't talk, and there are no relevant headlines in the press."

Remington asked, "Which school?"

"Cornell," answered Murphy.

Steele nodded.

"Girlfriend? Roommate?" asked Laura.

"No and no."

"Great."

Remington made another inquiry. "You didn't find anything even the tiniest bit unusual? Nothing at all caught your eye, even for a moment?"

"Nope," answered Murphy.

Remington said, "Be wary of this person."

"Why?"

"Two things. First, no one is that dull. It takes special effort to go completely unnoticed. Second, Cornell has an associate's degree program for guests at the local prisons."

"Kid doesn't have a record," Murphy added.

Steele nodded again.

"I did a quick search on Foster, too."

"Oh?" Laura asked.

"It's weird. Your boyfriend had a longer bio when he breezed in back in '82."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Remington was clearing away the lunch dishes in Laura's kitchen when the doorbell rang. He put a pitcher back in the refrigerator, rinsed his hands, and went to the door.

"Murphy."

"Steele. Can I come in?"

"Laura's not here."

"I know. I just talked to her. I came to talk to you."

Remington eyed him, then opened the door wide. Murphy followed him into the living room.

"Have a seat."

Murphy jumped right in. "I want to know how – in a time where nothing is private, cameras are everywhere, and the Internet knows all – how can Foster have basically no history?"

"He has plenty," Remington said, feeling a little smug that he knew more than his friend, the by-the-book private eye.

"What? What do you know about him? And how do you know it?"

Remington thought for a moment. Out of respect for the man, he decided to keep Foster's private life out of this for now, so he embellished a little.

"He's got a major art collection. He and I have friends, shall we say, in common. Dealers, restorers, and the like. If a man with money wants to stay private, it can be done."

"So you're not worried about him."

"I didn't say that. However, my concerns are not your concern. With what you told us earlier, young Mr. Fenton should be under your microscope."

"Do you know him?"

"Not at all."

"What's so great about this Gauguin that it brought you back to L.A.?"

"I find its provenance interesting," Steele said.

"Bull. If you cared that much, you would have stolen it by now."

"I don't want it."

"You're in town to rob a bank and this is just cover?"

Remington laughed. "At least I'd be reasonably certain the money is real."

Murphy missed what Remington was hinting at.

"Is it just an excuse to see Laura again?"

"My relationship with Laura is none of your business," Remington said.

"You didn't answer my question."

"And I don't intend to."

"Laura's my friend. I won't let you hurt her again."

"Hurt _her_?"

"You heard me."

"She's the one who – " Steele stopped himself. "She obviously didn't tell you the whole story, so take your misplaced indignation and get out."

Both men rose.

"When you disappeared," Murphy seethed, "I flew to L.A. to give her a shoulder to cry on. The whole thing destroyed her. You of all people should know what it would take to devastate a woman that strong."

Steele shoved Murphy toward the door and opened it.

"Out."

Murphy stepped outside, but got in one more shot before Remington could close the door.

"I hope your other woman was worth it."

Steele froze.

"Did Laura tell you that?"

"No, but you just did."

"It's not what you think," Remington said.

"Never is."

xxxxxx

Murphy found Laura in the gallery, where she was supervising the removal of the Gauguin. Once the painting was secure, Murphy drew her aside.

"Why haven't you told me what happened between you and Steele?"

"It's private, Murph."

When he'd first heard that Remington Steele had finally left, Murphy had indeed flown to Los Angeles to give her a shoulder to cry on. She'd sent him home.

"After lunch, I talked to Steele about a few things. Naturally, you came up. He wouldn't talk, either."

"He called and told me. Everything. Look, I appreciate that you care about me, and I get that you're concerned, but I'm a big girl."

Murphy took a deep breath and pressed on.

"I did some digging."

Laura almost told him that it wasn't his business, but reassessed. She'd tortured Murphy with lack of information and half-truths for too long. She thought maybe one of her oldest friends deserved a little consideration.

"Go ahead."

He flipped open a little notebook. Before beginning to read, he looked to her to see if she would retract her permission. She didn't.

"Elaine Turnberry. High-society client of the Steele Agency. When her cocktail parties made the society pages, more often than not, she was photographed with Steele."

Laura stifled a laugh, surprising Murphy.

"_She is quite the hands-on hostess," Laura observed, enjoying the fact that she wasn't the one who would be pinched and propositioned tonight._

"_Not hands-on. Handsy."_

Murphy continued, "Around the time of the last such photo, shortly before he left, Steele spent a couple days in the hospital."

She winced at this.

_Salmon puffs. Death on a toast point._

Murphy noticed her uneasiness. In a softer voice, he said, "He also made a large purchase at a local jeweler."

Laura's discomfort went to record levels.

"And?"

"I want you to know, Laura. I'm just basing my theory on the facts as I know them."

"Understood."

Murphy didn't say anything.

"What's your theory?" she asked.

He knew that what he was about to say was terrible. If it was true, she'd be hurt all over again, but surely Steele's presence was doing that already. If it was false, what would she think of him for thinking it?

"I'm actually curious about what you've put together," she said.

He took another deep breath.

"Steele was having an affair with Elaine Turnberry."

"Go on."

"I figure the photographs are easily explained since his job was to schmooze the clients. Maybe she came to visit him in the hospital, which is where you found them out. Or maybe you found them out and then put him in the hospital. Of the two, that one sounds better."

Laura suddenly felt awful. Murphy had always been suspicious – or at least wary – of Remington Steele. His mistrust and accusations really weren't a revelation. So what had her excuse been?

"Don't editorialize."

"The jewelry purchase was either for her, or… for you, but the apology didn't take."

Laura nodded thoughtfully.

"Well?" Murphy implored.

"You're right about the events – the cocktail parties, the hospital, the jewelry purchase."

Laura's calm tone made him feel better.

"And my conclusions?"

"Not even close, but the jewelry was for me."

xxxxxx

Laura found Remington scowling at the newly-hung Vermeer.

"Remington," Laura began. "Tell me what you know about Mr. Foster."

He raised an eyebrow, expecting a different discussion.

"He has, in the past few years, come into a great deal of money. It would appear to be family money, but neither you nor I have discovered whose, exactly. He seems to think it could all go away at any time. The art collection looks to be his chief vocation. My estimation is that he's trying to buy some credibility, establish some respect, show he's not nouveau riche."

"How extensive is the collection?"

"Very. But it's not so much the quantity; it's the alleged quality."

"Alleged?"

"Alleged." He cleared his throat before saying, "He does buy from legitimate auctions, occasionally anonymously. He also has an underling who seems to be a whiz at private sales."

"Who's the underling?"

"I have no idea," Remington admitted. "He's clever."

"Do you suspect something?"

"Yes, I do. Most of the pictures he's bought publicly are here on display, but few of the anonymous and private sales are here. I find that curious. If Foster is indeed trying to make a name for himself, he'd take pride in showing off the cherries he's managed to pick."

"What else?" Laura asked.

"An acquaintance of mine made a private sale. He did not sell to Foster."

"Maybe the painting was resold."

"I don't think so. The buyer wasn't the type."

"Are you here on behalf of your acquaintance?"

"No. As I said before, I'm here for the Gauguin."

"What's the problem with its provenance?"

"That Gauguin is in the private hands of an anonymous bidder."

"How do you know he wasn't the bidder?"

"That particular canvas is mine."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

They finished the day filled with suspicions, but nothing more.

Back at Laura's house, Remington set his lemonade on a coaster and sank back into the sofa. He clicked on the TV.

"_Good evening, ma'am. My name is Lieutenant Columbo, Homicide. I'd like to speak to Paul Gerard. Is he home?"_

"_I'm not sure."_

"_Is it a big house or is he just out to the police?"_

He swung his feet up onto the coffee table, then immediately dropped them back to the floor, disconcerted by how easy it was to slip back into their comfortable life. He shut off the television.

He wasn't hungry, but he thought it might make him feel better to go make a sandwich in a kitchen where he didn't know where anything was.

Meanwhile, Laura quietly opened a dresser drawer. She lifted a few items, finding the weathered envelope hidden beneath. She didn't need to read it again; she knew every word.

"_I want you all to think only of your mate's most wonderful and endearing qualities…"_

He had never seen her letter.

"_The only advancement he's talking about is into the bedroom. I want more than a roll in the hay."_

"_You… you want to have complete control!"_

In a fit of pique, she had screwed up that letter and thrown it off a cliff. Was that action apropos, she thought, or prophetic?

She picked up the envelope and toyed with the flap.

"_A commitment needs words!" she had shouted._

Here were his words, right here in her hands.

"_It all changed the day I met you," he said._

"_A change for the better?"_

"_Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I've wondered about that. But, here we are."_

"_Yes."_

"_Laura, I know we both want whatever it is that we have between us… we want it to go forward."_

"_I think you're right."_

"_So…"_

"_So, how do we get there?"_

She slid the drawer closed with the letter inside and sat down on the edge of her bed, wondering what would have happened if she'd let him read her list. She looked up as a shadow moved in the hall.

Remington appeared and stood in the doorway.

"Laura… um…"

"_Well, it's a beginning anyway."_

It was some time before he spoke again.

"I'm lost," he finally admitted.

Still mentally at the Freidlich Sensitivity Spa, Laura thought about teasing him with a remark about the short distance to his room, but she caught herself.

She rose and took a step, then stopped. What would she do when she got to him? He was still standing there, waiting for a response, wondering what she was going to do.

"_You are the most ridiculous woman that I have ever met!"_

"_Well then, get out of here! What are you waiting for?"_

"_That's a damned good question."_

"_Then go on! Get out! I was better off without you anyway!"_

"_You mean that, don't you?"_

"_Of course she does," the therapist said. She turned to Laura as Remington stormed out. "Don't worry, Laura. They always come back."_

"_Do they?"_

Standing there! And hesitating. Why won't he lean on the doorframe? Why won't he give her that cocksure look he'd always had, even before he had anything to be sure of? Where was the raised eyebrow? The come-hither expression? She wanted the corners of his mouth to twitch, ready to flash her that seductive smile.

Then she could decide whether to throw him on the bed or throw him out on his ass.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Remington tossed in his bed, frustrated. Memories crept unbidden into his mind.

He thought of filling her loft with roses.

"_No," he said. "A single rose is a token of affection. A dozen roses __is an overture or an apology__. This says it's been five days."_

"_You've only been gone three days."_

"_Three excruciating days placating dreary businessmen for you. Five days," he imparted, "since you kissed me."_

Suddenly, his wandering brain took him elsewhere. A long, lingering kiss at the foot of the few stairs to her bedroom followed by going home alone wasn't good enough for his psyche tonight.

_Laura folded her arms in a huff._

"_You can't blame the elevator stopping on me."_

"_I can try," she said._

"_You know it's not my fault."_

"_Of course it isn't!"_

"_I meant losing the MacGuffin."_

"_Stop calling it that."_

_His amusement at her continued displeasure softened her; she allowed one corner of her mouth to go up. That was all he needed. He was forgiven, but he intended to apologize anyway. He reached for her._

They had spent the next hour in the stuck elevator. He admonished himself and pushed that memory aside.

"_I need you to sign these."_

He frowned, figuring he'd never get to sleep. Then he smiled. If he was going to be hounded by the ghosts of their relationship, this was the one he liked best. It had been after eight o'clock on a Friday night. The rest of the building was dark and silent.

_As she came in to his office, he took his feet off the desk so she could sit there. She laid the papers down, handed him a pen, and showed him where to sign. He dutifully signed and initialed. Laura put all the papers in a manila folder, which he then took from her and shoved in a drawer._

"_Now that the reports are done, the filing can be done on Monday."_

_As she protested, he got up._

"_Dinner, perhaps? Maybe a late movie?"_

_She started to reach for the drawer, but he blocked her attempt._

"_It'll only take a second to file those…"_

_He pulled her close._

Remington closed his eyes as he remembered all the details of what had happened next, an interlude they later referred to euphemistically as 'desktop publishing'.

He wondered if she had any brandy, or anything else that might help him sleep. As he sat up, he had a better idea. The alarm clock showed it was nearly two. A late movie ought to be starting soon, he thought, and stole to the living room in his pajama bottoms.

xxxxxx

A sharp noise startled Laura from a dreamless sleep. She listened for a moment, then gunfire erupted. Another volley rang through, suddenly at a much lower volume.

"I remember this one," she said as she slid onto the sofa beside him.

He glanced over at her before his eyes flicked back to the screen. He adjusted his blanket.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"It's alright."

They watched for a while. Laura shivered slightly and nudged him. Without thinking, he opened his blanket cocoon and bundled them both inside. Her hand rested in the thick hair on his chest.

"This is confusing," she said.

"I thought you remembered this one. _Battleground_. Van Johnson, Ricardo Montalban. MGM, 1949."

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

He didn't know what else to say. His interest in the movie gone, he let his eyes drift shut, but not so he could sleep. He missed her. He missed their home. He even missed the smog. He cleared his mind, letting it wander, hoping his subconscious would tell him what he wanted here.

Remington opened his eyes when her hand started to slide downward. Glancing down at her, he saw that she hadn't fallen asleep.

She was moving her hand to his stomach. Slowly. He gave her his undivided attention.

"Remington."

He moved his arm out from under the blanket. He touched her hair, brushing an errant lock from her cheek. Everything felt so natural.

"Hmm?"

"Why are you here?"

He sighed, letting his fingers trace her cheek before he tucked his arm back in.

"I came to check on the Gauguin. Really. Nothing else."

"Do you come back to L.A. often?"

Remington thought he heard a tiny flicker of hope in that question.

"I haven't been to the States in years."

"So…"

"So why now?"

She nodded.

"L.A. is the first stop. If Foster's fake has something to do with me – some kind of opening gambit – I'd find out sooner rather than later."

"Just business," she concluded.

"Just business."

"You had no intention of seeing me, yet here we are."

Remington pulled her close, wondering how far denial could take them.

"Mmm hmm."

Laura studied him. There it was. That desire in his eyes that was always there whenever they'd had a moment to themselves. They had made time for a lot of moments.

"I'm always going to love you," she said.

_The light from the television flickered as the credits started to roll._

_He looked down to find that she was drifting off to sleep. He smiled as he stroked her hair, felt her body curled against his. Her warmth, her scent, her fascinating beauty._

_He closed his eyes._

_He whispered to her, "I love you."_

_As the sun came up, Laura woke on the sofa. She stretched, disturbing the carefully tucked blanket. As she pulled it back up to her chin, she remembered that she'd missed the end of the movie. Whodunit, she wondered, but then the question faded away. She recalled how she'd felt in his arms. She had been warm and safe. He had touched her hair, held her close, whispered to her._

_She froze._

_Whispered to her!_

_She grabbed her shoes in a panic._

_He woke an hour later to find her gone. He'd been wise to consider this possibility, he thought as he scrambled his eggs. He wouldn't have to compound her anxiety with his._

_So he gave her space. In time, his patience was well rewarded._

Remington wondered if she was being wistful or if she was opening up a very large can of worms. He decided to hedge.

"I know what you mean," he murmured.

"I also think I'll always be sorry."

He noted to himself that this wasn't really an apology.

"And I'm lost." Though he was managing to find his way under the blanket.

He softly kissed her cheek, then her lips.

Laura pushed her regrets aside and looked into his eyes. She exhaled as a rush of fluttering excitement ran through her.

The next kiss was deep and lingering.

She whispered, "Remington."

His kisses provoked in her an eagerness they both recognized. As he laid her back onto the sofa, years vanished and their ardent attraction broke free.

At the same time, his knee hit the television remote, causing a burst of sound as the channel changed. While he looked for the remote to silence the infomercial, her practical side pushed through unwanted in the lull.

"Remington," she said quietly, "Where do we go from here? I'm as lost as you are."

He found the remote and shut off the TV, leaving them in the dark.

"Your room is probably better than mine."

"I'm glad I asked the tough question."

"At least I knew the right answer."

It was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"We've got nothing, partner," Murphy said as soon as Laura answered the phone. "No new information, no leads, no nothing."

"Good morning to you, too," she said. "Maybe there's nothing to know."

"You know, something Steele said earlier makes me think we've got a bogus painting."

"Two."

"Two?"

"Two," Laura said. "Remington's Gauguin and the Vermeer."

"Were you planning on telling me?"

"I just did. Remington says there are copies sold as originals all over the art world. Many more than anyone will admit. This could truly be nothing."

"Or we could have a very big problem on our hands," Murphy said. "What do you mean, 'Remington's Gauguin'?"

"You're going to hurt yourself changing gears like that."

"Come on."

"I mean he owns the real one."

"Owns? Or stole?"

"He bought it legitimately."

"Wow. Where'd he get that kind of money?"

"Goodbye, Murph."

"I bet that part wasn't legit."

"Goodbye, Murphy!"

Laura ended the call and went back into the kitchen.

Remington said, "This afternoon is the cocktail reception. Tomorrow's the final showing. What do we have to do this morning?"

Breakfast had been quiet. Remington was struggling to get a conversation going.

"As far as Murphy and I can tell," Laura said as she put the last of the dishes away, "there's nothing to be done. The venue is under lock and key."

Remington looked at her. The conversation stalled again.

"Talk to me, Laura."

He took two steps towards her, but she suddenly moved to the other side of the large kitchen. She coiled up the toaster cord.

"What do you want me to say?" she asked.

"Right now, anything at all."

"Fine."

"How about a little more than that?"

When he realized she wasn't going to shout at him, or even ask him to take out the trash, he tried again.

"What would you do if I wasn't here?"

"I'd be at the office, getting some paperwork done."

"Of course you would."

"I'd run some searches on the Gauguin and the Vermeer."

"I can save you that trouble. I've already done every search and talked to everyone I know," he said.

Laura crossed the kitchen, keeping the table between them.

"I think I'll go to the office."

Remington nodded. He pulled out his phone and looked up movie times.

xxxxxx

Remington was on his way to the theater, but the car drove itself to Century City. He opened the door to the empty reception area of Suite 1157. Looking around, he noticed small changes to the decor. Little updates kept the offices classic, but not dated.

He saw name plaques on each of the three smaller offices. Laura's old office, Murphy's office, and the storeroom were each occupied by a new detective. The doors were all closed, so apparently each had other duties today.

The door to his office also had a small nameplate. Laura's name was in the same size type as the others. How egalitarian, he thought. He didn't knock; he pushed open the door and walked in.

Laura lifted her head from the laptop screen and smiled. She got up and rounded the desk, then stopped in her tracks.

"You were going to kiss me hello, weren't you?" he asked.

She looked a little upset with herself.

"Unsettling, isn't it, eh?"

Laura agreed, somewhat relieved that apparently he was having the same problems. Their emotions were not playing fair.

After a second, he continued, "Look, I dropped by to tell you I'm moving to a hotel. My issue with the painting isn't resolved, so I can't leave town yet. I'll try to keep my distance."

He took a step backwards towards the door.

"Wait," she said. "Don't leave."

"Why not?" It came out more bluntly than he intended. "I'm sorry about last night, by the way."

Laura looked at him. She said, "If you want a well-thought-out, rational answer, I don't have one. Just…don't leave."

He nodded. "Okay."

It was a start. He turned to the wall of photographs for a more comfortable topic.

They were color now, and all featured Laura with various people. Remington recognized a former mayor and a congresswoman. Laura told him stories about each one he pointed out.

"And what about this one?" he asked innocently.

The small picture, hidden in plain sight among all the others, showed Laura, Bernice, Bernice's husband, and Remington Steele.

_Remington was in the tub after long day of surveillance in the cold rain. He opened his eyes when he heard Laura come home, and listened to her going through her just-home-from-work routine: putting her coat away, turning on a lamp, kicking off her shoes. He heard her climb the stairs. In a moment, she'd pass by the bathroom and see the light under the door._

"_I didn't realize you were home," she called through the closed door._

_She couldn't make out his response, so she peeked in. When she saw he was in the bath, she went in and sat on the edge of the tub._

"_Ask me how my day was."_

"_My keen detective's mind tells me you spent your day outside," she said, as thunder rumbled in the distance. "You're turning pink."_

"_I think I'm finally getting warm," he said, taking her hand. "Care to join me?"_

"_I would, actually," she said. He smiled. "Give me a minute."_

xxxxxx

"_Aren't you going to ask about my day?" she said half-jokingly as his massage worked its way from the sides of her neck and down her shoulders._

"_No."_

"_Well," she said, "I hope you have room in your busy schedule for lunch tomorrow. Bernice called. She and her husband are in town. She told me to bring whomever I'm seeing these days."_

_He stopped his tour of her and waited for her to continue._

"_I didn't tell her about you. I'm leaving it as a surprise."_

_He cleared his throat, and she wondered what he was nervous about saying._

"_I was in the office for a few minutes today," he said, "and I happened to answer the phone. Bernice called back with the name of the restaurant. She was quite astonished to hear my voice."_

_Laura laughed, "It'll be like being questioned by the FBI."_

_The next day, __Laura and Remington sipped cocktails al fresco at a table for four._

"_I don't remember Bernice's husband," he said._

"_You've never met him."_

"_What's his name?"_

"_I don't know."_

_Remington asked, "Didn't you go to the wedding?"_

"_You're thinking of her first husband. Bernice is introducing us to her new husband."_

"_What happened to the old one?"_

_Laura shrugged._

"_Bernice Foxe," he said, chuckling at memories. "She never did like me, did she?"_

"_When you weren't antagonizing each other, maybe she did."_

_Bernice appeared at the entrance and spoke to the maître d'._

_They both rose as a waiter showed Bernice to the table._

"_Laura! How long has it been?"_

"_The last time I saw you was at least one husband ago," Laura teased._

"_I promise to tell you everything, if you'll do the same," Bernice said, nodding to Remington._

"_Miss Wolf! Lovely to see you again," Remington said._

_Bernice opened her mouth to speak, but he stunned her into silence._

"_My apologies, Bernice," he said, kissing her cheek. "My apologies. I am sorry, but I couldn't resist."_

_Bernice gave Laura a wide-eyed, questioning look before giving her old friend a hug._

"_Alex will be along in a minute. In the meantime, I think I'm going to need a bottle of wine."_

_Remington laughed and summoned a waiter. They were enjoying their first taste of a good vintage when Bernice's husband arrived._

"_Laura, Mr. Steele, this is my husband…" Bernice took a deep breath. "Alexander Wolffe."_

_Remington stifled a laugh, covering it with a cough and a glance at Laura. She gave him a playful glare as Alex shook her hand._

"_Bernice may insist on calling me Mr. Steele, but it's Remington, please," he said, extending his hand._

_As they shook, Alex said, "Well, Remington, where's the bar? Our ears can burn over a 12-year-old scotch."_

"_I see your lovely wife has prepared you for today. The bar's over here."_

_When the men were out of earshot, Laura asked, "This conversation isn't going to pass the Bechdel test, is it?"_

"_What's that?"_

"_A film passes the test if two women in it have a conversation about something other than a man."_

_Bernice looked at her friend for a moment, then asked, "What do you think about the UN resolution on China?"_

"_What did they resolve?"_

"_No idea."_

_Laura nodded._

"_Oh, come on! The infamous Remington Steele is still here, and you're obviously together. I want all the details. Spill!"_

"You were charming," Laura said. "Bernice was amazed that we were living together, but I think she was most taken aback by the fact that I called you Remington."

"_And Captain Comedy?" asked Bernice._

"_Remington."_

" '_Remington'?"_

"_Remington," Laura said. "He's still trouble, but not the kind that comes with any significant prison sentence."_

"It's the little things," he said.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Remington and Laura were sitting on the fringes of the cocktail party, trying to both blend in and stay out if it.

Their conversation kept fading as they avoided slipping into serious topics.

"Have you seen _Interview_?" He rattled off the citation for the Dutch film.

Laura understood what he was trying to do. He was making an effort, but keeping things light. She knew eventually the subject would come rearing up, but what would they gain by having the fight that killed their relationship all over again? What would they lose?

"Foster's Van Gogh is a particularly nice one," he said.

The apparent non sequitur – she didn't know the film's director was Theo Van Gogh – earned him a response.

"It's okay."

"Just okay? Do you know what it's worth? And what people will do to own it?"

"If you weren't here, I'd leave this whole thing to Murphy," she said.

"I know you prefer a nice, juicy murder to kowtowing to the rich. Why did you take the job?"

"It's a lot of work for a lot of people. There are still bills to be paid."

He nodded, and the conversation faltered again.

She took his hand. He clasped her hand between both of his, then, after a while, lifted her hand and kissed it. He put her hand back down, but didn't let go.

"So," he began.

She raised an eyebrow.

"When are we going to have it out?"

The way he calmly asked the question surprised her. Her avoidance techniques had worked until right then. The guilt came flooding back.

"Do we have to?"

"If our renewed acquaintance is just a bewildering interlude, then no."

"And if it isn't?"

"Then I think we'd better talk about it, don't you, eh?" He smiled as bravely as he could and squeezed her hand.

Laura's phone buzzed. She glanced at a text from Murphy.

"Foster's looking for us," she said.

"Duty calls."

xxxxxx

"I think a cocktail party was a great idea, if I do say so myself," Foster said. "It will give all these people something to talk about at dinner later. It should generate that much more buzz for the final show tomorrow."

"The guests do seem to be enjoying the artwork," Laura said.

"They're enjoying my liquor."

Remington said, "Moving from post-impressionism to realism, eh?"

"Don't get me wrong. I'm enjoying myself – and all the trappings – but I have no illusions about these people."

"Some are true devotees," Remington said.

"You and Miss Holt, of course. Not your colleague, and not that philistine who asked me why I have Bacon's interpretation of _Painter on the Road to Tarascon_ instead of the Van Gogh original."

"Lost in a fire during World War II," Remington said. "As far as anyone knows, anyway. Sometimes these things turn up."

Laura glanced at Remington, her eyes asking if he knew something about the original. He shook his head almost imperceptibly.

Laura's phone interrupted them.

"Please excuse me. I have to get this. It's Chad."

Neither Foster nor Remington moved away. Both had an interest in the conversation, so they listened discreetly.

"Hello?"

"Yes. Yes, that's right."

"No, there's nothing – "

"I said it's all – "

"No, I did not run that by Mr. Steele."

Remington knew that tone of voice.

Laura continued, "Mr. Foster approved all of this."

Remington motioned at Foster, who caught the drift and signaled for Laura to hand him the phone.

"Foster."

"Give it a rest, will you? I told her what I wanted done."

"Because they're my paintings."

"It's under control. Miss Holt and Mr. Steele are on-site and have things in hand."

Laura and Remington simultaneously gave sharp looks to their client. Realizing that he'd just announced Remington's presence when he had promised not to, he shrugged and mouthed, "Sorry."

"Yes, he's right here."

Foster covered the phone with his hand and started to apologize. Remington waved him off and took the phone.

"Steele here."

"Miss Holt has handled everything with unimpeachable attention to detail."

"Yes, Mr. Foster wants all his art on display tomorrow."

"Nothing will be in the storeroom."

"No, nothing. The Gauguin and the Vermeer will be on display."

"Actually, I have read the policy. Have you? He's covered for theft, fire, flood, and acts of God, even if he decides to leave all the pieces in an alley behind the building during a full moon."

"We've complied with your requests until now, but they are just requests."

Remington listened for a long time.

"No, I don't think so. All the agency's clients know that I work in a strictly advisory capacity. My partner Miss Holt takes care of everything else. You'll have to speak to her."

Laura started miming that she didn't want to talk to Chad again.

Remington continued, "That's because you are not our client. Mr. Foster works with us, and you work with Mr. Foster. Miss Holt has, thus far, graciously acted as an intermediary."

Laura was still waving her hands. Remington held up a hand and signaled that he would take care of it. Foster noted the relief on her face as Remington continued the conversation.

"We have ample security in place to safeguard the collection."

"No, I don't think we'll be doing that. It's not written in the policy, and you didn't ask nicely."

Laura smiled. She was enjoying this.

Remington continued his end of the conversation. "Already done. We have done this before, you know."

Laura could hear the voice on the other end get louder. Remington held the phone away from his ear until the tirade ended.

"I think you've made your point."

"Yes, but of course you'll have to speak to Miss Holt. She's right here."

Foster watched Laura's face fall. Exasperated, she snatched the proffered phone and walked away.

Watching her go, Foster said, "I think you're going to pay for that later."

"I do hope so," Remington said. "Might be fun."

xxxxxx

Remington held Laura a little closer on the dance floor.

"What is this perverse pleasure you get from tormenting me?"

"Oh, come now," he said, with a mischievous grin. "You've thrown me under the bus many times. It was your turn."

"Sadist."

"Yet you're still dancing with me."

"And I'm still trying to figure out why that is," she said.

He stopped talking for a moment and just took her in.

"As am I," he finally said, "but that doesn't mean I'm not enjoying every second."

The band changed songs.

"How about a drink, Laura?"

"We're working."

"Very well," he said, but a passing waiter caught his eye.

"What?"

"Oh, it's nothing. I thought I recognized someone."

Murphy walked over from the crowded bar, carrying a glass of ice water.

"Here you are, Laura. I've been looking all over. How about a quick spin around the dance floor?"

"Sure." To Remington, she said, "Can you manage alone for a few minutes?"

"Of course."

Murphy glanced at Remington, then handed him the glass of water and walked off with Laura on his arm.

"So, how are things?" Murphy asked, seemingly innocently, as soon as they were dancing.

"Everything's great, Murph."

"Glad to hear it."

"How's Sherry?"

"She's great," he answered.

"How long have you been married now?"

"Almost thirty years."

"It must be nice to have an uncomplicated love life."

"It's plenty complicated," he said, "but not your kind of complicated."

"Remington and I had uncomplicated for a while. It was wonderful."

Murphy didn't know what else to say, so he took a moment to do his job and had a look around the room.

"All quiet?" she asked.

"Hang on."

He twirled her around so he could see the other side of the room. Laura laughed.

"Yup, all clear," he said, smiling back at her.

The smile faded when Remington tapped him on the shoulder.

"May I cut in?"

Murphy bowed out gracefully, keeping his opinions to himself.

"Was five minutes too long to be away from me?" she teased.

"Yes," Remington said, "but that's not why I cut in."

"Oh?"

"We've got a small problem that needs to be handled quietly. Murphy might have overreacted."

"What's going on?"

"There's a pickpocket working the party. As far as I can tell, it's just the one waiter, but I can't get a handle on him. He keeps disappearing."

"Describe him."

"I didn't get a good look. He's short and thin. Brown hair. Older."

"Let's go. You go left, I'll go right, and we'll meet in the middle."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Laura and Remington met in the middle.

"Anything?" asked Laura.

Remington scanned the room again. "Nothing. Where did he go?"

"If you're the pickpocket, who are your high-value targets?"

"Anyone."

She glanced up at him.

"True, but not helpful. I know," he said.

"Okay," Laura said, rubbing her hands together. "I'd have warmed up with some easy ones. I still have to do my job as a waiter to keep up appearances and blend in."

"I have to drop off empty glasses, pick up drink orders from the bar, and circulate with my tray."

"A tray. Is he pulling this off one-handed?"

"It can be done," he said. "That won't get you anything too deep, though."

"The waiters don't carry a tray all the time."

"Let's have another look."

They spread out again. Laura headed straight for the bar. She loitered by the bartender who was filling orders for the wait staff instead of for the guests directly.

"Something I can get you, Miss Holt?"

"No thanks, Kevin. Say, do you know all the waiters?"

"I know all the waitresses," he said with a wink.

"I'm sure you do. This man's older. Short, with brown hair."

"Could be a couple of the guys."

"Thanks."

Laura decided that checking out all the waiters as they came to the bar would take too long. She walked around the venue, looking for anything unusual. She spotted Remington, who seemed to be laser-focused on a point in the distance. She looked that direction and saw a waiter with his back to Remington.

The waiter turned, and Laura watched a grin spread across Remington's face. The waiter walked off with Remington right behind him. The waiter stepped behind a column and didn't come out the other side. Remington did the same.

Laura couldn't see the service staircase that Remington was silently descending. He followed the waiter to a storeroom and watched as the man emptied his pockets onto a table.

"Still the best dipper in the game, eh, Roddy?"

Startled, the waiter lifted his head.

"Harry, old friend!" Roddy's posh London accent was diluted by years in the States. "If this is your gig, I had no idea."

They shook hands. Remington clapped his friend on the shoulder, saying, "I'm not here to pinch anything, mate."

"You're back in the detective business?"

"No, I'm just protecting an asset."

"So you're not working the room," Roddy said.

"The only toes you're stepping on here are Laura's," Remington said while appreciatively poking through Roddy's haul.

"Laura? Your Laura?"

"My Laura."

Roddy asked, "Are you back together?"

Remington put down the necklace he was admiring.

"I don't think so."

"That's an interesting answer."

"She's in charge of security," Remington said.

"But I checked."

"I know," Steele said. "No worries. She used another agency's name as cover."

"Do I have to give all this wonderful bounty back? Rich people do carry cash, you know. You never know who you'll have to tip, or how much."

Laura appeared at the door.

"Yes, you have to give it back."

Roddy looked up from the pile of wallets and jewelry and smiled at her.

"Laura Holt," Remington said. "Allow me to introduce Roderick Moore, gentleman pickpocket."

"A pleasure, dear lady," Roddy said, kissing her hand. "Harry always said you were lovely, but I can see he understated the truth."

"Flattery aside," she said, "you still have to give it all back."

"Of course, of course. You know, if your name was attached to the exhibit as security instead of that other agency, I wouldn't even be here."

"What do you mean?" she asked as she opened a wallet to look for identification.

"Darling, you're off limits to all of Harry's friends."

"There is honor among thieves, Laura," Remington said.

"Some of us, anyway," Roddy said.

xxxxxx

"How many miscreants have stayed out of Los Angeles because you thought I couldn't take care of myself?" Laura asked as she extracted a baking dish from the cupboard.

She had changed out of her cocktail dress and into a skirt. Remington was in jeans and a blue dress shirt, open at the collar.

"Dozens, at least," he answered. "What are you making?"

"Trout amandine. I hope you still like it."

"I do." He rummaged through the fridge to see what he could whip up for a side dish.

While he was turned away from her, she took note of his jeans. Laura gave serious consideration to hooking a finger in his waistband and peeling them off him.

She shook off the feeling.

"I should look up the data," she said.

"What data?"

"To see if certain crimes have gone down in recent years in any statistically significant way."

"I don't think you're going to get a commendation from the mayor for having friends in low places, Laura."

She smiled.

"How far back do you and Roddy go?" she asked.

"He was a friend of Daniel's, so quite a long way."

Laura put the fish in the oven and set the timer.

"If you'd just nicked fourteen pieces of jewelry, would you be able to identify which came from which guest?" he asked.

"That was impressive."

"It made Murphy's job easier. Something he did not appreciate, by the way. Did you get everything sorted out for tomorrow?"

She got two plates out of a cabinet.

"Let's leave work at work," she said.

"Business and pleasure separate?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. When their relationship had become intimate, she couldn't let go of 'never mix business with pleasure'. Keeping business at the office and passion at home gave her the illusion of control. He had kept himself amused by trying to get her to break her new rule.

"Please," she said.

She set the table with his help, then checked on dinner. She warmed her hands near the oven door.

When he took her hands in his and gave them a brisk rub, she didn't shy away. Her eyes met his, then wandered to his lips.

"If you want to kiss me," she said softly, "kiss me."

The corners of his mouth went up, as did her temperature.

"That's exactly what I want to do," he said.

Their lips met, tenderly at first, then more impulsively. Being in the moment was the only place she could be with him that made any sense to her. This felt right. This felt very good indeed.

A buzz interrupted their kisses three minutes later.

"If that's Murphy at the door," Remington said, "I'm going to kill him with my bare hands."

"That's the timer. Dinner is ready."

xxxxxx

"Your friend called me 'darling'," Laura noted.

"I'm sure he felt like he'd known you for years," Remington said. "He's heard enough about you."

"You never called me 'darling' or 'sweetheart' or anything like that."

Remington chewed the last of his trout.

" 'Laura' always meant everything to me."

In the trial-and-error years of their relationship, she had labored to get him to express his emotions. When they had lived together, he had always been direct about his feelings for her, especially after he had discovered that well-chosen words made her melt. She liked that he was being frank with her now.

"I love it when you're a hopeless romantic," she said.

"You called me 'Mr. Steele' for years. Or nothing at all."

"It just took time," she said.

"Everything took time."

"It was worth it."

"Now who's the hopeless romantic?" he asked. "You know, it took me ages to figure out why you were so cautious, so careful with me."

"Oh?"

He elaborated, "During that disagreeable period when we were seeing other people, you threw yourself into several relationships. Caution to the wind. I consider myself an intelligent person, but with you there were times when I was a very, very stupid man."

Laura waited for him to continue.

"Then it came to me, the reason you wanted to make sure I'd be there the next morning. Even when you said it was, it wasn't just for business, just as the man who was the public face of the agency. You wanted me. As is. It scared the hell out of me."

Remington added, "Still does."

He stood up and began to clear the dishes. Laura didn't press him on his minor revelation. She checked to see if the coffee was ready. She brought over two cups.

"Tell me more about what you do now," she said. "Besides buying paintings legally and keeping me safe from scoundrels, that is."

"I told you about the rare coins."

"Yes."

"A friend of mine had an investment opportunity. I was a little short."

"What was the investment?"

"A shopping mall outside Lisbon. I'm now part owner of several. One of my partners is slowly buying me out so I can retire."

Laura expressed her surprise.

"I even have an employee. Someone to take care of the house while I'm gone, do odd jobs, and so on. I wanted to hire someone who needed a break. He said he was an honest man, and his parole officer agreed, so I hired him."

"Only you could see no logical flaw there," she laughed.

"What's a little grand theft auto between friends?"

xxxxxx

Laura wiped off the kitchen table while Remington did dishes. She found a dishtowel and started to dry. She watched him move as he washed and rinsed. Usually, his half-unbuttoned shirt was what gave her impure thoughts, but she could only see his back. Still, she thought as she appreciated his jeans again, that would do.

Once she had a little stack of plates, she walked around him to put them away. Out of the corner of his eye, Remington watched her skirt swirl around her legs. As soon as she turned back, he resumed washing.

Laura dried a cup as she walked around him again, but this time she brushed against him. It was deliberate, and they both knew it.

"Excuse me," she said.

He handed her another cup.

Laura returned for a batch of silverware. She was on Remington's right, and the drawer she needed was on his left. Instead of going around, she nudged him backwards. He was up to his elbows in suds, but he shook off his hands and let her by. He tried not to get water on the floor.

Laura returned to his side and nudged him again. He backed up a half step, forcing her to squeeze through. As soon as he felt her warmth against him, he knew he was through with the foreplay. He quickly trapped her against the sink.

They had played this game before.

"You're dripping water everywhere," she said, but he didn't move.

Laura arched an eyebrow at him. Before the next drop hit the floor, he kissed her hard.

With a passion he didn't want to control, he whirled her around to the bare table. He left a trail of suds up her thigh.

xxxxxx

The sheets from Laura's bed were on the floor, but they'd managed to find the blankets and had wrapped themselves up in them.

"I did not!" Laura exclaimed.

"You certainly did," Remington said. "A waiter went by with those little éclairs and I ended up dancing with your sister for twenty minutes."

They had attended the wedding of Laura's cousin. It was a weekend in New York during their chaste days, though he had persisted in swinging for the fences.

"Now, Frances is a lovely woman," he continued, "but it wasn't her body I wanted close to mine."

"If you're trying to be seductive, I'm immune."

"Obviously." He lifted the blanket and gave her nude form a long look.

Laura swatted him and tucked herself back into his arms.

He grinned and held her tightly.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Remington was suddenly alarmed that she was simply going to tough it through the night, worrying and wondering, just to see what happened in the morning. This was not good. How did she change directions so quickly?

So he distracted her. He started with her earlobe, then moved to her neck. This elicited the right kind of sigh. He brushed her hair away from her face, then ran his hand down her shoulder to her hip. When he slid his hand to the small of her back, she jumped.

"That tickles!"

"What does?" he asked.

He did it again.

She flinched again as they both laughed.

"I wonder if it only tickles when I use my hands."

She gave him a look of mock fear and pulled the blankets around her for protection, leaving him naked.

"I'm going to get cold."

"Do you promise not to do that again?"

"No," he said very seriously.

Laura laughed again, but lifted the blankets to let him in. They held each other close.

They were quiet for a while.

Remington loved how she felt in his arms. He watched her closely as he thought about missed opportunities.

Her brow crinkled.

He finally said, "Whatever it is, say it."

She looked away, but decided she had to ask.

"Will you hold me tonight?"

To an outsider, the question would have sounded tender.

"Of course." He pulled the blanket up. "You'll wake up in my arms like you did every morning."

Except for once.

He didn't say it; they were both thinking it.

Except for once.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

"_Where is this party tonight?" Remington called out._

_Laura appeared in the bathroom doorway, fastening her necklace._

"_What?"_

"_Where are we going?" he asked again as she walked away._

_Laura dodged the question once more by answering as she ran the faucet._

_He stood in their bedroom, shaking his head and adjusting his cufflinks. When she returned, he took a step back and looked her over._

"_Very, very nice."_

_Laura blushed, not from the compliment, but from the facial expression that accompanied it._

_In his mind's eye, he had already removed the bobby pins to let her hair spill around her shoulders. Her dress was on the floor in a silken puddle._

_He slid his arms around her slender waist._

"_Are you ready to go?" she asked._

_He kissed her shoulder, taking full advantage of the strapless pewter gown._

"_Definitely."_

_Laura took a sharp breath as his hands slid to her bottom and pulled her against him. She felt the thrill of being so deeply desired by this gorgeous man, a man who was loyal, loving, and… unzipping her dress._

_xxxxxx_

_The party swirled around Laura and Remington, though they were both trying to stay anonymous. They kept their backs to the wall near the buffet table._

"_Elaine Turnberry." Dejected, he mindlessly munched on salmon puffs from a cocktail plate._

"_She throws a lot of wealthy clients our way."_

"_Why us?"_

"_She's very thankful that we found – you found – her son, and she's good for business."_

"_I think I'd rather declare bankruptcy."_

"_She is quite the hands-on hostess," Laura observed, enjoying the fact that she wasn't the one who would be pinched and propositioned tonight._

"_Not hands-on. Handsy."_

_Laura laughed while he consoled himself with more salmon puffs. She was ready to throw him to the proverbial wolves in the name of business, but she also knew she'd pay for it later. A little incentive might help. Glancing around to make sure no one was looking, she squeezed his thigh._

"_I'll make you a deal," she said, crooking a finger at him._

_Remington leaned down so she could whisper in his ear. He slowly smiled as he listened. He put down his plate and moved to face her, putting his hands on her hips._

"_That's a very intriguing first offer."_

"_It's the only one you're going to get," she said._

"_Will you at least hear a counter-offer?"_

_She raised her eyebrows, then shrugged._

_He leaned in and whispered for some time. Butterflies shot through her and she went flush._

_He backed away and enjoyed the look on her face while she gave his offer the thought it deserved._

_From across the room, they heard someone call, "Laura! Remington! There you are."_

_Laura said quickly, "Deal."_

_Remington kissed her ear and glanced up to see how close the danger was._

"_Great. I'll go find a lawyer to write it up." And he disappeared._

_Laura moved to chase him, but lost him in the sea of tuxedos. Elaine Turnberry rushed toward her, leaving Laura no option but to screw a smile on her face and greet her host._

"_Mrs. Turnberry! What a wonderful party."_

"_It's Elaine, please. It's lovely to see you again. I'm so glad you were able to come."_

"_It's our pleasure."_

_Elaine raised an eyebrow at the plural. Laura cringed on Remington's behalf._

"_There's someone here I must introduce you to. He has quite the dilemma, and you'll be the only ones who can help him with the discretion required."_

_Laura started a polite inquiry about the case, but found it difficult. Obviously searching for someone, Elaine was looking everywhere but at Laura._

"_But first things first. Where is that delicious man of yours?"_

_Laura spotted him ducking out to the balcony. A moment later she saw him following a group of partygoers back in through another door._

_With a grin, Laura sicced their host on him._

"_Remington Steele, you stay right there!" Elaine called._

_Remington, knowing he was caught, sent a pleading look to Laura. She shrugged with feigned innocence._

xxxxxx

_Remington followed Laura in through the kitchen door. He pitched his keys onto the counter._

"_She's a menace to anyone in trousers."_

"_No," Laura said softly, tugging on one end of his bow tie. "I think she just likes tall, dark, put-upon Irishmen."_

_She put her hands on his chest and slowly pushed his jacket off his shoulders._

"_So do I," she added._

_He quickly tossed the jacket on the back of a chair. She twined her arms around his neck, putting an end to his mock indignation and bringing to mind their deal._

"_I still love you even if you will try to loan me out to other women."_

"_I know you do."_

_xxxxxx_

_Laura stirred in their dark bedroom. She turned over to put her arms around him, but found only cold sheets. He hadn't been in bed for some time. Not seeing a light in the adjoining bathroom, she pulled a blanket around herself and got up._

_She stood there for a while, wondering what to do. She wandered into the hall, then the guest room, where she nearly tripped over a suitcase on the floor in front of the closet door. She stopped and stared blankly at it. The blanket slipped from her fingers. Her feeling of warmth and safety sublimated into a cold panic._

_Laura ran to each of the other rooms on the second floor. Nothing. She stopped at the top of the stairs and forced herself to take a breath._

"_Calm down," she muttered, but the fear wouldn't go away. She couldn't see any lights downstairs, either, but she went down anyway._

_The TV in the living room was off. The patio doors were closed and locked. The kitchen was empty; through the window, she could see the Auburn in the driveway. Everywhere she went, she found things as they should be._

_She glanced into the downstairs bathroom on her way to the basement door._

_He was on the floor._

_She flicked on the light and hurried to him._

"_What the hell are you doing down here?"_

_Pale and grimacing, he didn't open his eyes, but he did manage to answer._

"_Counting the tiles… Didn't want to wake you."_

"_Can you get up? Are you okay?"_

"_Need some help."_

_She struggled to get him up._

"_We're going to the hospital."_

"_I'm not going to argue."_

_Laura's mind reeled with anxiety. She spun from guilt to desperate worry to anguish._

_When she had finally gotten him to the car, she asked, "Why was the suitcase out?"_

_He was feverish, but he knew this didn't make sense. He opened one eye._

"_What?"_

"_Why was the suitcase out in the guest room?"_

_He closed the eye._

"_It was on the high shelf. You asked me to get it down."_

_xxxxxx_

"_Laura, I'm fine," he said, scratching his arm near the IV line as she tried to swat his hand away. "Well, I will be as long as you keep Elaine out of here."_

_Two days in the hospital had brought him back to health, but Laura was doing a very bad job of hiding her emotions. What he took as worry was deep, abiding guilt._

"_So far, the doctors have kept her out," she said, sitting beside him on the bed. "Well, the doctors and the time she's spending doing damage control. You are in the Turnberry wing, however, so the staff will only go so far. They know who keeps them in state-of-the-art equipment."_

_He grunted his displeasure._

"_The upshot is you have this room to yourself, I don't have to leave when visiting hours are over, and the bill is already paid."_

"_How's everyone else?"_

"_All salmon-puff victims are expected to fully recover."_

"_Good. Maybe this will put an end to her parties." He rested his hand on her leg. "Although I did like the arrangement we made."_

_Laura looked at his hand. He had no idea what her conscience was doing to her._

"_Let's go home," he said._

"_You need to stay in bed."_

"_That's exactly what I'm talking about."_

"_They said you can go home tomorrow morning."_

_Remington pushed the button to make the bed adjust. He let the motion of the bed move his hand farther up her leg. He slipped his other hand behind her neck._

"_You don't have to leave when visiting hours are over."_

_Laura pushed both his hands away._

"_I'm going to go call Frances."_

_Remington understood that he gave everyone a scare._

"_I hope she wasn't too worried."_

"_What?"_

"_I hope she wasn't too worried about me."_

"_Oh. I'll let her know you're alright."_

_Laura walked down the hallway to a lounge. She didn't call her sister. Instead, she sat alone in the overlit room on an uncomfortable chair. After their years together, their home, their life… had she really thought he'd leave her?_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Remington Steele finished adjusting his tie and put the last of his things in a suitcase. He closed the case and set it in the doorway just as Laura passed.

She stopped.

"You're leaving," she said.

"The exhibit moves on after tonight. It would appear that I'm just an innocent bystander, so I'm going to go home afterwards. I booked a red-eye."

"You'll never be able to sell your painting if Foster's isn't exposed."

"I don't care. It's actually better this way. No one will bother mine."

"Where do you keep it?"

"What?" he asked.

Laura looked up at him.

"Where do you keep it? Is it in a safe deposit box? Hidden away in some climate-controlled vault?"

"It's on the wall in my study."

She nodded, then walked away. Remington watched her go into her bedroom. She returned with an envelope.

"This is my reminder," she said, handing it to him.

He looked at the weathered paper. It had been wet once and had dried, leaving the paper wavy. The flap was holding on by one corner. There was nothing written on the outside.

Remington carefully extracted the pages inside. The blue ink was turning brown with age. He recognized his own handwriting and quickly placed the letter, though he hadn't seen it since he'd given it to her on the beach all those years ago. He didn't read it; he handed it back.

He said, "This is where one of us says, 'Last night was just a weak moment between old lovers.' "

"Was it?" she asked.

"Not for me."

She threw her arms around him, crumpling the letter. He kissed her with his eyes shut tight as the flap of the envelope finally let go and fluttered to the floor.

"Was that goodbye?" he asked as she pulled away.

"That was I'm sorry."

"For what?"

Laura said, "For ever thinking you'd run off with another woman."

He snatched up his suitcase. He knew they had to have this conversation if he wanted her back, but he didn't care.

"I'm not doing this again," he snapped. "I'll take an earlier flight."

He moved to go past her, but she stopped him.

"You're going to leave? You're angry because I apologized?"

He dropped the suitcase and turned away from her, muttering to himself. He counted to ten, then turned back around.

"Laura, you wouldn't be you if you weren't suspicious against your better judgment. That woman did everything but take out a billboard. You were allowed to have a momentary lapse in trust."

"But – "

"But! Damn it, Laura."

She tried to finish her sentence, but he didn't let her.

"You should never have let the suspicion and the guilt fester and burn and twist for days. You let me think everything was fine. Better than that – worse than that – you let me think everything was wonderful. I thought we'd gotten past having to read each other to guess what the other was feeling. You have no excuse for hiding things from me. You knew you could trust me with her, but you didn't trust me enough to tell me you were scared to death for one terrible moment."

"But I did – "

"Yes, you did." He gave her a contemptuous laugh. "You certainly did. And at just the right moment, too. It's exactly what I wanted to hear while down on one knee: a flood of guilt, mistrust, and blame."

On that catastrophic evening, he had been uncharacteristically nervous, distracted, and quiet at dinner, but she hadn't really noticed. She had been trying for days to get control of her conscience, while concealing her inner turmoil from the man she loved. Laura had heard him say the words, but they didn't register at first. Once they did, hell broke loose.

"And you," she shot back. "You didn't want to hear any of it! You said that I could tell you anything. Apparently, I had to have good timing, too."

He ran his hands over his face as he watched them go through all this again. The only change was that, this time, the argument was in the past tense.

xxxxxx

"Laura, what is the matter with you? We have got to be on top of things tonight if we're going to figure out what the hell is up with the fakes and wrap this up without incident."

"I know, Murphy. I'm sorry."

"Listen. Foster's been here for a while, but now there's a kid in an Armani tux following him around."

Laura frowned. "Chad?"

"I don't know."

"Why not approach Foster on some pretext? He's bound to introduce you."

"Did that," Murphy said. "Didn't work. Where's Steele? He's better at this social junk than I am."

"He's gone."

"What?"

"He's gone."

Murphy knew her calm tone was just cover.

"Hey, Laura, I'm sorry."

"So am I."

"When?"

"He left this morning."

Murphy looked at his watch. "It's after five!"

"I don't need to keep you posted."

"Look, I know, but you don't need to suffer alone, either. Don't keep this stuff bottled up."

"That's just what he accused me of."

With that, the entire story spilled out of her.

"Remington is right," Laura concluded. "I didn't trust him. I should have told him everything."

Murphy said, "He's guilty of exactly the same thing. You know that, right?"

"We both know. I still haven't forgiven him. And after this morning, I know he hasn't forgiven me."

xxxxxx

Murphy stood by the bar, idly watching guests enter as he thought about ways of finding out who the kid with Foster was. He raised an eyebrow when Remington Steele walked in. Murphy held up two fingers to the bartender. He picked up both glasses in one hand and walked over, texting Laura with the other hand.

"You're an idiot," Murphy said, holding out the glasses.

Remington took one. "Laura lets you drink on duty?"

"They're both for you."

"I see Laura talked." Remington swallowed the drink with a grimace. "Did it take a cinderblock room with a bare bulb?"

"I get it," Murphy said. "I do. I understand your reaction."

"Good for you."

They stared each other down.

Murphy's phone buzzed.

"I told her you're here," he said as he read Laura's text. He chuckled. "You do provoke colorful language."

"She doesn't want to talk to me, does she?" Remington asked, nodding at the phone.

"Nope. You're an idiot."

The phone buzzed again. Murphy checked it and harrumphed.

"She says to meet her by the kitchen."

Remington said, "If you don't hear from me in ten minutes, come help."

"Oh, don't worry," Murphy said, taking back Remington's empty glass. "I'll help her bury the body."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Remington sat by the kitchen door. The big door swung wide as waiters went in and out with fresh hors d'oeuvres and buffet items. Snatches of music from the kitchen staff's radio floated out.

_And if you're not here,_

_I'll fight myself._

_You're supposed to make this_

_better, better, better…_

The lyric faded as the door swung closed.

"I'm sorry. Again."

Remington looked up as Laura sat next to him.

"It seems I have a talent for pulling the rug out from under you," she said.

"I've been told I'm an idiot."

"I see Murphy relayed my message," Laura joked half-heartedly. She was fighting anger, defiance, resignation, and regret. She sighed. "We've both behaved poorly."

"That's very diplomatic."

"We've both behaved like stubborn children?"

"Better."

"So the question remains," she said. "What are we going to do about it?"

He shook his head. "I don't know. I love you, but I don't know about understanding you."

"You came back."

He shrugged.

"Couldn't you find an earlier flight?" she asked.

"I never made it to the airport," he said. "It felt too much like the last time I left Los Angeles. It's one thing to love you and be absolutely livid with you from a great distance. It's quite another to love you and let it all go with the memory of you lying warm and naked in my arms last night."

Laura was having the same dilemma.

"What did you see?" she asked.

Remington smiled at how well she knew him.

"_Casablanca_."

Laura quoted, " 'You despise me, don't you?' "

He recited the answer. " 'If I gave you any thought, I probably would.' "

"Are you going to be here for a while? I have work to do."

"Have you found out something?" he asked.

"No," Laura said, "but Foster has a young shadow this evening. Murphy and I have tried to find out who he is, but we've been unsuccessful. It could be Chad, or someone else entirely."

"Point him out to me."

"I can take care of it."

"I know you can, but this concerns me, too. Remember?"

"I'm sorry," she said.

They stood, and Laura looked around.

"There they are," she said, pointing. "Heading to the artwork."

Remington spotted them. He squinted, trying to make out a detail.

"Is he wearing a neon green pocket square?"

"I guess there's no accounting for taste," she said.

Remington shrugged. "It makes him easier to spot."

"Murphy's tried the direct approach. I've been trying to eavesdrop, with no luck. Ideas?"

He thought for a moment.

"Perhaps," he said. "Wait here."

Laura watched as Remington crossed the room. He was heading directly for Foster and the unknown man. She watched as Remington shook hands with both of them. They gestured at paintings; they talked. Remington broke away from them and returned to Laura.

"What did you find out?"

"Well," he said, "he's Chad Fenton, your valiant insurance agent."

"Why is he here?"

"He professed innocent enough reasons, but I don't trust him any more than you do."

Remington took something out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Laura.

"Is this his wallet?"

Imitating Roddy's accent, he said, "That it is, my darling."

Laura opened the wallet and searched it. She found a few dollars and a valet ticket, but nothing else.

"There's nothing here!" Laura was moving from annoyed to infuriated.

"I think it's time I introduced you to Mr. Fenton. It's the polite thing to do," Remington said.

They shared a conspiratorial look.

Laura said, "Definitely. Let's do this."

xxxxxx

Murphy watched Steele and Laura talk to the two men. He wondered what had happened this time to turn them from hostility to goodwill, at least to the point where they could glad-hand the client together. Remington and Laura separated from the men.

Murphy's phone buzzed. He checked a message from Laura and hurried down the service staircase to meet them.

Murphy immediately wanted to know, "Who is that guy?"

Remington answered, "He claims to be your insurance agent."

"And Laura didn't deck him?"

"Not yet," Laura said, "but the night is young. Remington lifted his wallet earlier. It revealed nothing."

"So now what?" Murphy asked.

"So now," Remington said, "we see what we got this time."

He started emptying his pockets. Laura didn't have any pockets, but she had several items tucked here and there.

Murphy marveled at the growing pile on the table: a cheap cell phone, a pack of gum, a gold business card case, a wad of cash in a money clip, some tissues, a pen, two keys on a plain ring, and a scrap of fabric.

"What's this?" Murphy asked, picking up the bright green material.

Remington shrugged innocently, but winked at Laura.

"That," Laura laughed, "is a fashion faux pas."

"Wait a minute," Remington said. "There was something else. Where'd that go?"

He patted down his pockets as Murphy opened the gold case and found nothing of interest.

"Here it is," Remington said, tossing a small leather case onto the table.

Murphy opened it and pulled out several cards. He read them off.

"Driver's license, Chad Fenton. Insurance card, Chad Fenton. Library card, Chad Fenton."

Laura picked up the case.

"There's something else in here," she said, working another card out from behind a flap.

She held it up.

"Passport card…Chadwick Foster Morris."


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"Chadwick Foster Morris," Murphy repeated. "We've got work to do."

Laura nodded. "I want to know everything, right down to his shoe size. Regroup here in twenty?"

Laura and Murphy rushed off to do their research. Remington knew his sources didn't have searchable websites and databases, so he sent off two carefully worded texts, then wandered back upstairs.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at a text that said, "Sorry, mate. Got nothing for you."

He walked near the display of masterpieces as he waited for his phone to buzz again. The kid was planning something. This was the final night before the display moved on. He passed several works of art, noting that nothing looked amiss. When he reached the Gauguin, he stopped.

This was the final night. This is the end, he thought. He and Laura had the same argument twice. He was crazy to think that this time it might lead to a different result.

Irrationally, he thought about finding Laura and letting her have it again. Third time's the charm. She'd thought her misstep had ruined them, and so it had. Giving her hell wouldn't change that.

He moved away from the Gauguin to the next painting. He checked his watch.

The Van Gogh was indeed nice, he thought. Maybe he should just beat Chad to the punch and disappear. Steal them, fakes and all. He could think of several entertaining things to do with the copies.

Remington cast his eyes back to _Nevermore_.

He drew in a deep breath as he thought more about the most important question of his life.

_Laura, will you marry me?_

His phone beeped.

Her answer would never be yes.

He read the message and went back down the service staircase.

xxxxxx

Laura had made quick work of the research. The name Chad Morris yielded pages and pages of data. She read everything, but when she actually came to his shoe size, she stopped. People post the strangest things on Facebook, she thought.

The kid's relationship status was 'single'. Laura observed that, if she had time for such frivolities, she'd have to choose 'It's complicated.' And then some, she thought.

"_Your trust in me wavered, just a little bit, perhaps."_

Laura clicked off her phone as a memory covered in guilt reared up.

"_Let's go," she said._

"_You arranged bail?" Remington asked._

"_It was Mildred, actually, by way of Vigilance Insurance. I'll explain, but, come on, get in."_

_He opened the door for her to get out of the Rabbit._

"_What are you doing?" she asked._

"_I'd like to talk for a moment."_

_She tried avoidance. "Considering the situation…"_

"_Just a brief walk," he said. "Come on. It's okay."_

_They walked to the side of the police station._

"_I, ah, I missed you in jail," he said._

"_Well, didn't Mildred explain? I… We were there."_

"_Are you telling me that Laura Holt, the woman who can talk her way past anyone, couldn't find a way to reach me?"_

_She tried an excuse. "Look, I mean, the police. You know, I mean… Once they make up their minds…"_

"_You didn't want to see me."_

"_That isn't true. I just…"_

"_It is true. I can feel it."_

_He leaned against the building, then continued, "Something happened when you found out about the robbery, didn't it? Your trust in me wavered, just a little bit, perhaps."_

_She mumbled something noncommittal._

"_Once a thief, always a thief," he pressed. "Isn't that what went through your mind? Hmm?"_

_She wouldn't look at him, so he lifted her chin with two fingers._

"_Laura?"_

_Her confidence failed._

"_I… I didn't want to think it; it just happened."_

_She leaned against the building next to him. He circled around to face her._

"_Tell me."_

_Laura said, "Well, I know it's crazy because I know I can trust you."_

"_Just tell me."_

"_You must admit, it's the perfect double con. You make me believe you've been set up. I work to get you out of it. And then once we prove you're innocent, you split with Cranston and the others. And then…"_

"_And then? What?"_

"_And then you go away."_

It was part of a distinct pattern of behavior, Laura thought.

Don't admit you're interested in him. Let Creighton Phillips take you to the fair for cotton candy instead.

Keep him handy for work, but push him away. Invite Butch Beemis over for a beer instead.

Bill the stockbroker, whose last name she couldn't even remember.

William Westfield.

Don't admit you've fallen for him. Don't let yourself even consider that you might love him. That he might love you. Don't tell him you're heartbroken for him when he reveals an upbringing so tragic that he doesn't even know his real name. Pack a bag and get on a plane to Mexico with William Westfield.

"_Is that piece of paper the only thing that's keeping us together?" Laura asked Remington, referring to their revoked investigator's license._

Remington had unilaterally gotten the license back, while she was running away.

Remington had never cared about the job, except as a way of staying in her life. Perhaps as a source of new suits and amusement. 'That piece of paper' was not why he stayed.

She had driven too fast from the airport to Remington's apartment, leaving a dazed Westfield sitting on the tarmac. She buzzed twice, then knocked. With no answer, she turned the knob and found the door unlocked. She dropped her bags and called to him as she walked through the apartment. She glanced into the kitchen, then walked into his bedroom and opened his closet.

Laura realized now that this was not an innocent action, though it seemed so at the time. She had exactly one reason for checking his closet.

She tested Remington repeatedly, until she finally figured out how to get him to leave her. Yet he always came back. Then and now.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

"Family history," Laura began. "Young Chad is the son of Victor Morris and the former Alice Foster. That makes our client his uncle."

"They lived in upstate New York," Murphy added. "Victor was killed when the kid was eleven. Alice watched him turn into a juvenile delinquent."

Laura said, "A world-class delinquent. His juvenile jacket's an inch thick and sealed up tight. A friend of mine who works for the _Post_ now says the biggies were hacking and wire fraud."

"Looks like you were right about Cornell," Murphy said to Remington. "The kid got his degree inside at sixteen."

"During all this," Laura continued, "Alice turned Victor's already successful grocery store chain into an empire, which she ran with an iron fist."

"She's _that_ Morris?" Remington asked.

"Yes, she is," Laura answered.

"That explains why Foster hid his background," Remington said. "That's a lot of baggage."

"Alice Morris liked her newfound wealth," Laura said. "Our very own Mr. Foster was a vice president until he was disowned for marrying below his station, leaving Chad the only heir. She died of cancer two years ago."

"If you were the heir to the Morris fortune, would you have a job in insurance? Kid's got to be waist-deep in cash," Murphy said.

"I'm sure the trust fund can be seen from space," quipped Remington.

"I bet it's got its own gravitational pull."

Laura said, "We can try to analyze him all day, but let's sort out the art situation. Let's try to figure out what he might be up to."

Murphy pulled pictures of the seven pieces from his inside jacket pocket and dropped them on the table.

"Full disclosure," Laura said, looking pointedly at Remington.

Remington pushed to one side the little pile of Chad's belongings from earlier and started sorting pictures.

"Matisse, Renoir number one, Renoir number two. Foster was present at the auctions." Remington pushed their photographs to the side. "Gauguin, fake. Vermeer, fake."

"Tell me about the person to whom your friend sold the Vermeer," Laura said.

"Man called Braemer," Remington answered. "Likes beautiful things, doesn't care where they come from or where he gets the money to buy them. He stays ten steps ahead of Interpol. He does not sell."

"Would he go public if someone else flaunted a copy?" Murphy asked.

"He doesn't feel threatened, so he'd do nothing."

Laura wanted more. "How do you know he doesn't feel threatened?"

"Foster's still alive."

"What about the Van Gogh?" Laura asked, picking up one of the two remaining pictures.

"Real."

"That leaves Bacon. _Painter on the Road to Tarascon_."

"I can't get a line on that one," Remington said. "I put out feelers, but to no avail. I have had a close look. I'd defer to a more expert opinion, of course, but it looks right."

The three were lost in thought for a moment.

Laura finally asked, "Murphy, which paintings were supposed to be locked away tonight before Foster changed his mind?"

Murphy flicked through a file on his phone. "Matisse, Vermeer, Gauguin."

"Who decided on that?" she asked.

"This schedule came from the insurance company."

Laura nodded.

"Chad is going to get rid of the fakes," she concluded.

"Why?" Murphy asked.

"I don't know yet," she said. "How was he going to get into the storeroom? The same way you were, through the weak spot in the ceiling?"

"Possibly," Remington answered.

"Wait a minute," Murphy said. He rifled the pile of Chad's things and picked up the keys. He studied them.

"These are bump keys," he concluded.

"We installed the best locks money can buy," Laura said. "Keypads outside the building, new locks inside."

"Good locks can actually be easier to bump," Remington said. "Less movement of the tumblers is required to open them, and they're less prone to jamming."

Laura shook her head. "It's moot. All the art is on display upstairs. How's he going to retrieve his fakes now?"

Murphy shrugged. "The passport card would suggest he's planning on running to Mexico. You can't fly internationally with one of those."

"We didn't find any car keys," Remington noted.

"Could be a boat."

"It doesn't matter!" Laura said. "What's he going to do right here, under all of our noses?"


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"Surveillance from the middle of a dance floor," Laura said. "I should write a book."

"It does make sense," Remington said. "Central location. Ease of movement. Anonymity."

"Maybe you should write the book."

"_Spying on the Rich in Ten Easy Steps_?"

"_How to Deduce and Seduce at the Same Time_," Laura said.

"Story of our lives." Remington studied her. "I thought you were immune to seduction."

"Not when you hold me like this."

"Like what? I always hold you this way."

"I know," she said. "And Dean Martin songs don't help."

Though the band was doing an instrumental, Laura and Remington both knew the words.

_You may not be an angel_

'_Cause angels are so few,_

_But until the day that one comes along_

_I'll string along with you._

"I thought this was Tony Bennett," Remington said.

"He did it, too. These things made the rounds back then."

"Simpler times."

"There's no use lamenting the past."

"Why not?" he asked. "It's all that gets me through the day sometimes."

"Me, too," Laura admitted.

_For every fault that you have,_

_Say I've got three or four._

_The human little faults that you do have_

_Just make me love you more._

"Do you see him?" asked Laura.

"Who?" Remington had forgotten all about his Gauguin and their disreputable insurance agent. He hummed along with the band. " 'You may not be an angel, but still I'm sure you'll do_._' "

Laura looked up at him and said, "Chad."

"Forget him."

"You know we can't."

Remington reluctantly agreed.

"I suppose we do have to work," he said. He looked around half-heartedly. "I don't see him."

"That's what I'm worried about. I don't see him, either. He was tailing Foster, but now he's disappeared."

"Check in with Murphy," said Remington.

"He's over by the art. I can see him from here."

Laura watched a drop of foam appear on Remington's shoulder. She frowned.

Remington said, "If Chad's hiding in Roddy's secret storeroom, we should just lock the door and leave him there."

Another drop appeared. Laura studied the ceiling for the source.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"Something's dripping."

Remington glanced at his shoulder.

He said, "Looks like the fire suppression system is leaking."

"We tested it before the galas started."

He touched the substance and rubbed it between his fingers, noting it had a yellowish cast. "Is the foam supposed to be oily?"

"No, it isn't."

"Is it supposed to burn off your fingerprints?" he said, quickly wiping it off his hands.

Before Laura could answer, the fire alarms started to shriek and the emergency lighting came on. Guests started to leave.

In a flash, they both figured out what was going on. The nozzles in the ceiling started sputtering out foam.

"Where's the maintenance closet?" Remington shouted to Laura.

"I'll take care of that. You take care of the art!"

Laura dashed away. Remington was off at a dead run, yelling to Murphy to cover the paintings.

Foster ran to them. "What can I do to help?" he asked over the blaring sirens.

Remington answered, "Grab some tablecloths. We've got to get the paintings covered."

"Can't we take them down?"

Murphy said, "They're locked to the wall." He put his jacket over the Vermeer.

"Leave that one for last," Remington said.

"Oh, right." Murphy moved the jacket to a Renoir.

The alarms continued to scream.

Foster was covering up the Matisse. He yelled, "What? Why?"

"It's fake!" Remington shouted back. "We'll explain later."

As they got the art under more layers of cover, the alarms and the foam stopped.

Murphy asked Remington, "Where's Laura?"

"She was taking care of the alarm. You've got foam in your hair."

"So what?"

"The stuff's caustic," Remington said.

Foster was standing in the middle of the room, quietly taking in the destruction.

"Mr. Foster," Murphy called. "You've got to get the foam off your skin."

"What?"

"The foam. It's got something in it. You need to get cleaned up."

"Very well." He took out a handkerchief and started wiping the foam away.

Murphy and Remington started to walk away.

"Wait!" Foster called. "You said my Vermeer was fake?"

Remington answered, "I'm sorry, but it is. The Gauguin, too."

"What? How?"

"Well," Murphy began, "Chad has – "

"What's that ungrateful hooligan done now? Is he responsible for this mess?"

"Yes," Remington said. "Laura's been on to him for some time."

Murphy asked, "Where is she anyway?"

"She was taking care of the alarms."

"You told me that already. They shut off a while ago. So where is she?"

Remington said, "She went to the maintenance closet."

"The maintenance closet, where Chad presumably was causing havoc?"

"Oh, no."

Murphy took off, with Remington right behind him.

xxxxxx

Murphy and Remington rounded a corner at full speed, then slowed to a walk as they approached Laura.

She was sitting on the floor in front of a door, which someone was trying to open from the inside. She braced herself against it, keeping the occupant trapped.

"It's not like you gentlemen to leave a lady to catch the bad guy all by herself."

Remington sat down next to her and took up the strain of blocking the door.

"Our apologies, I'm sure," he said. "Did he give you much trouble?"

"None at all, actually. I didn't think I could overpower him to get the system shut down, so I just shut the door and called the fire suppression company. They shut it off remotely. The police are on the way."

"It's a good thing the door opens out."

"I'll take whatever help I can get," Laura said.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Laura, Remington, and Murphy stood in the damp gallery after watching William Foster follow his handcuffed nephew out of the building. A crew was already mopping up the foam.

"If Chad had just left the paintings alone, he would have gotten away with it," Remington said. "Braemer and I wouldn't have exposed him."

"He didn't know that," Murphy said.

"True, true."

"I think his real concern was his uncle," Laura said. "You two were joking about trust funds. That was the key. Mr. Foster told me that right before Alice Morris died two years ago, she changed the conditions of the trust for her wayward son. Chad has to be gainfully employed and stay out of trouble until age thirty. He gets a small amount every month until then. Mr. Foster gets a generous stipend for putting up with him, plus he's allowed to invest some of the funds."

"The art collection," said Murphy.

"Right." Laura continued, "Chad would get wind of a sale with a reclusive buyer, create a fictional private sale, pocket the money, and present his uncle with a copy."

Remington added, "He was embezzling from his own trust fund."

Murphy put a few more pieces together. "So he was able to convince his uncle to keep most of those copies tucked away, but Foster liked the Gauguin and Vermeer and insisted they be on display. Chad had to keep his uncle from finding out – maybe he even felt threatened by the appearance of the 'great detective Remington Steele' – so he decided to act."

Remington let the comment go.

Laura said, "Now with his arrest, the trust is dissolved. He doesn't even have to actually be convicted."

"What happens to the money?" Remington asked.

"Chad does see some of it," she said. "Presumably his mother didn't want the kid to have a public defender. Foster gets enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life. The remainder goes to various charities and foundations."

xxxxxx

The valets had gone home long ago, so Laura walked Remington to his rental car. It was parked under a harsh light that threw long shadows into the nearly empty lot.

"Do you have any other cases that require the input of a former art thief?"

"Can't say that I do."

"My excuse for staying just got ruined," he said. "Shame, really. Whoever did that Gauguin was an artist."

Remington tossed his soggy jacket in the trunk and closed the lid.

"Do you need an excuse to stay?" Laura asked.

"I don't know. Do I?"

"We didn't resolve anything, did we?"

"We didn't really give it much time," he said. "I thought last night was a step in the right direction."

"You always think the answer lies in the bedroom." Laura knew this was glib, but it was all the fight she had left.

"Tell me it doesn't." He decided to be just as superficial.

"We did finally talk some," she said.

"And we let our true feelings show. At least I did."

"I did, too, you know."

Both of them were wondering what to do next.

"There's a solution to our problem," Laura finally said.

"Oh?"

"Ask me to run away with you."

"I'm not running away," he said.

"You know what I mean."

They stared at each other across the car roof.

"Ask me to stay," Remington countered.

"I…" Laura couldn't find the words.

With their stalemate firmly established, he opened the car door.

"What are you going to do?" Laura asked.

"I'm going home."

"No, I mean…" She didn't really know what she meant.

"Am I going to go lose myself in another woman?"

Laura felt his anger returning.

"I didn't say that."

"Is that what you want me to do?" Remington asked. "So you can be right retroactively?"

"Maybe you should."

"Maybe you should give Foster a call. He seemed to like you."

"I just got his nephew arrested and destroyed his source of funding."

Remington had to laugh at that. "Have you suddenly developed an aversion to taking the path of greatest resistance?"

"I only seem to do that with you."

Once again, they ran out of things they were willing to say.

"Goodbye, Laura."

Remington got in the car and started it.

She watched him drive across the parking lot. He stopped and looked back at her.

She found the words, but it was too late.

"Please stay," she said to the car as it pulled onto the street.


	18. Chapter 18

**Epilogue**

On Monday morning, Laura stared at a newspaper while she rode the elevator.

_Bernice read aloud, " 'Remington Steele and unidentified woman – ' "_

_She paused and turned to Laura. "That's you."_

_Bernice continued reading the caption, " 'Rescue rare gems.' "_

Laura walked down the hall to the office.

"_Good morning," Laura said to the waiting client._

"_I have a nine o'clock with Remington Steele."_

_Laura missed him already. She had felt something for the dashing con man who had played Steele so well for the past few days._

"_I'm afraid Mr. Steele was called away on urgent business in San Francisco, but we can use his office."_

_Laura turned to Bernice._

"_If, uh, anyone should call…"_

"_He won't."_

Laura greeted the receptionist and pushed open the door to her office. She stopped before entering.

_She was surprised to hear the client say, "Mr. Steele! I thought you were in San Francisco."_

_Laura turned to Bernice again. They shared a stunned look. Laura hurried into the office and smiled when she saw Remington Steele._

_He said, "I was, but, ah, suddenly, there was nothing for me to do up there."_

_Remington closed the door and shared a glance with Laura._

"_Now, how can I help you?"_

Laura heard Murphy say goodbye and hang up the landline. She walked in, hoping that it had been Remington on the phone.

"Hey, partner."

"Hi, Murphy. Who was that you were talking to?"

Murphy heard the wish in her voice.

"Sorry, it was just the guy from the museum. The art checks out – which are real, which are copies – just like Steele said. Except for one."

"Which one?"

"_Painter on the Road to Tarascon_. It's a copy, too. So much for his expert opinion."

Laura sat in the chair that clients usually used since Murphy was behind the big desk.

"Foster paid in full," Murphy said. "He included a bonus for pain and suffering."

"That was nice of him. Spread it around your agency."

"I'm sure my staff will appreciate that. Thanks."

Laura studied a thread on her jacket. Murphy waited until she was ready to talk.

"Do you have to get back home right away?" she asked.

"Not really. Why do you ask?"

"Well," she said, "I'm thinking of taking a vacation."

Murphy leaned forward.

"You've got plenty of people here who can run the place for a week or two," he said.

"I might be gone for a while."

Murphy nodded knowingly.

"Anywhere special?" he asked.

"I hear Portugal is nice this time of year."

THE END

Credits:

Action and dialogue for some of the flashbacks are from the episodes "License to Steele", "Steele Trying", "Steele of Approval", "Steele Searching", "Forged Steele", and "Sensitive Steele".

Roddy is based on a character Roddy McDowall played on _It Takes a Thief_, "Boom at the Top", 1969.

_Columbo_, "Murder Under Glass", 1978.

"Desktop publishing", _Dharma and Greg_, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Father", 1997.

Lyrics "If you're not here, I'll fight myself", Robbie Williams, "Different", _Take the Crown_, 2012.

Original inspiration was the scene where Paris slaps James in _Tomorrow Never Dies_, 1997. Sorry I took so long to finish this!


End file.
